Saltaire

We made our way down the first staircase lock today in the company of NB Deolali. After that, however, they were pushing on, while we wanted to take a break at Saltaire.

Not "salt air", as in Scarborough, but the model village (and World Heritage Site) on the outskirts of Shipley, created in the 19th century by industrialist Titus Salt, who made his fortune by working out what to do with alpaca wool.

In response to a series of events that focussed his attention on the nature of life for typical industrial workers and their families, he built his new mill on the banks of the River Aire (Salt + Aire = Saltaire), transferred all his businesses there from Bradford, and built a new village to house the workers.

These pictures of the front and back of one of the streets show something of the result. The housing and the provision of local amenities were in massive contrast to the circumstances of workers in most industrial centres.

It's normal to poke a little fun at Sir Titus. He was an ardent Congregationalist, built the (now URC) church opposite the factory (it's now a listed building) and, responding as a teetotaller to the very significant social problem in this era of alcohol abuse, made sure there wasn't a pub in sight.

In fact, the first bar we saw today in Saltaire was called "Don't tell Titus"! He was very much a man of his age, and the type of house in which you got to live reflected your status within the factory. But he was a man of deep principle, who put his money where his mouth was, and whose ideas seem to have contributed significantly to ongoing thinking about town planning.

The mill closed in 1986, but the new owner transformed the buildings into a home for various businesses, and a gallery for the work of Bradford-born artist David Hockney.

I'd known very little of his work. He was at the forefront of the "Pop Art" movement, and the main gallery had a good mixture of work that I found surprisingly interesting and pleasing.

But it was the exhibition upstairs that really caught the eye. It was called "The Arrival of Spring", and consists of 31 works, done one each day during May 2011, capturing the changing season in his part of Yorkshire. He went out each day, and captured a scene on his iPad, using a painting app.

It was an extraordinary exhibition, enterprising and enjoyable, and all the more so for being unexpected. Erin Mae really does deliver some treats, as well as building up my stress levels as we move through the locks on the L & L.

Bingley locks

It's been a great day for cruising – first thing on the agenda was a few more swing bridges.

Soon, however, we arrived at the top of the (in)famous locks in Bingley. We pulled in for water, and then waited our turn to go down the flight.

We waited a long time – about two hours. These five locks are a staircase – the bottom gates of one lock are the top gates of the next. A few minutes after you exit these, there's another flight of three built on the same principle.

The way they operate them means that it's better use of water to bring several boats through in one direction, and then several through in the other. So we waited for a wide beam to come up, and then a single narrowboat.

The need to stick to a system means you don't operate them yourself – it has to be done by CRT staff, with just incidental help from boaters. We went down in company with NB Deolali.

The view as we came out of each lock chamber into the next was pretty stunning – you feel you're about to fall down the hill. Looking back, however, the view was not half so enticing.

A number of the lock gates were leaking badly. Since Erin Mae only just fits into these locks, I had to reverse into the flood to allow the gates at the front end to open past our front fender. We ended up under more than one cascade, and although some water sluiced out via the channels, a good deal found its way down into the engine compartment. This happened once before on one of the locks further back along the canal, and is quite scary. This is the first time I've ever noticed our bilge pump kick into action.

A couple more notable things about Bingley. First were some gate paddles of a type I haven't seen before. A horizontal ratchet arm, operated by a handle, pivots the paddle sideways. Most gate paddles slide up and down. Second was the Damart factory, which everybody but me seemed to know was in this town.

We haven't needed any thermal underwear today – it's been really warm. We've tied up by a pub just before the final staircase locks, a set of two. We were hoping it might have provided a nice Sunday meal, but it doesn't seem that sort of pub. We also thought we'd come out of the town into a slightly more rural section, but at the moment we are being bombarded by car audio systems playing at high volume from a car-park somewhere near.

Win some, lose some.

Riddlesden

We try to visit any National Trust properties that the canals take us to, so we've been moored up in Riddlesden, ready to visit East Riddlesden Hall, which was closed on Thursday and Friday.

It's a delightfully quirky building, with a rather quirky history. Much of the quirk derives from the mid-seventeenth century, when the family who moved into the property implemented some of the developments they wanted to make, but were prevented by circumstances from completing them.

When the Hall came into NT ownership in the 1930s it contained just one piece of furniture, so it seems to have been furnished with all sorts of things brought from elsewhere, including some from local museums looking for a place to store stock they had no room for. Unity and continuity are therefore somewhat lacking, but there was lots to fire the imagination.

We got chatting to David Mosley, who met us in the first room and collected our tickets. He was a mine of information about the history of the property, including all the quirky bits. Without him our tour would have been less comprehensible and far less interesting. We talked about the local families who have been in the area for centuries (including his own), and it reminded me of the way Edward Rutherford constructs his stories around a timeline over one or more millennium. Each chapter typically focusses on a particular point in time, and you see the characteristics of the families being perpetuated down the centuries, as they interact with each other.

In that context, David demonstrated the way his thumbs bend – it's an idiosyncrasy of his family, and I'm sure it would appeal to Rutherford.

Whatever the Hall itself may lack is made up for by (a) the obvious affection that the volunteers and staff feel for it, and (b) the way the gardens are managed. They have formal sections and informal sections. They have parts developed particularly with a sensory theme in mind. They have a wonderful herb section, with descriptions of what all the herbs have been used for traditionally. They are clearly used as a local educational resource, and they were a really nice environment in which to eat our picnic lunch.

Finally we went on the riverside walk that takes you on a circular route, partly alongside the river Aire. We passed a cricket match being played on a pitch that has more slope than Lords, with all the quite unique sounds that village cricket generates. We've thoroughly enjoyed our day – it's been well worth the stopover.

Oakworth

Our day-in-hand was to be used to visit Screwfix in Keighley, to see whether they had a screw for one that is missing from the lock-cover on Erin Mae's back door. They didn't, though Thomas & friends spent a lot of time and energy finding out. Nor did they have a magnetic door catch small enough for one of her cupboards. They did, however, have a bag of ear-plugs to assist my best beloved in her nocturnal slumbers (no comments, please, on what sonorific intrusion to her soporific state is implied here).

So with the Srewfix business terminated, it was bus-pass time again – to pay a visit to Oakworth. Anyone who's seen The Railway Children will have their own mental image of Oakworth, but it's likely to be erroneous. It surely must be a "village", but it's quite a size and its terraced houses sprawl over a large area of hillside, like Haworth (of Brontë fame) next door. The railway station is at the bottom of the hill, down which we walked with some trepidation, thinking of the return journey. But when we got there, a surprise awaited.

The level crossing gates were closed (or open, depending on what you're driving), and the train was coming through.

It actually stopped on the track between the gates, while the fireman shovelled more coal into the firebox. Whether they'd run out of steam at that moment, we've no idea.

Perhaps the driver was just playing peek-a-boo with the road traffic.

The station is appropriately preserved with all sorts of adverts for products mostly long disused.

Numerous period artefacts which may or may not still be functional are found on the platform.

It was apparently one of the terms of the contract with the producer that the station's own name be used in the film – and that's been a source of tourist revenue ever since.

Walking back up the hill was not quite as bad as feared (I still don't know why, on whatever journey, it seems to me shorter returning than going). We ate our lunch in Holden Park, a quite amazing resource for Oakworth.

It's on several levels. A war memorial gives way to a bowling green, surrounded by walkways through extraordinary rock formations.

Some areas off to the side are given over to conventional play areas.

But it's the paths, some low, some high that surely excite a child's imagination most.

They lead upwards through wooded sections, to the broad expanse at the top where we had our picnic. The whole thing creates grottoes and caves – masses of places for an extended game of hide-and-seek.

It's a truly extraordinary place, which owes its existence to the Holden family and their generosity. Sir Isaac Holden was a 19th century industrialist who invented the "Lucifer" match, but refused to patent it because he'd done so almost by accident. He made his money mostly from wool-related activities. The stories about him suggest he'd be absolutely delighted with the use to which the grounds he created are now being used.

Oakworth wasn't quite what we were expecting. But it seems that's pretty normal for the places that Erin Mae takes us.

Onwards through the bridge

Continuing to Riddlesden this morning, we stopped at Silsden for a pump-out, and for a while were completely blocking the cut, lined up as we were with all their boats on a turnaround day.

The bridge at Silsden is not the most auspicious or attractive, but it's significant – it marks the edge of the territory we've inhabited for the last few weeks, so at last we're venturing somewhere new.

The canal continued with the swing bridge theme, though none were as filthy as this one (191), over which the farmer regularly troops his cows, leaving it covered in mud and muck. My best beloved's trainers needed a thorough washing. Mind you, the saddest about this bridge was that just beyond the gate to the field below was an anxious-looking cow, and in a paddock above the bridge nearer the farm was her calf, separated for some reason. They were crying pitifully to each other.

The day was a mix of sun, cloud and showers as we passed through green sections. Hardly any traffic, but this moored boat caught our eye.

We couldn't really make out what the superstructure was made of (possibly wood / ply), nor whether it had any means of propulsion or steering. Presumably a couple of oars through the side doors would do.

The gas bottle at the back and the hatch and solar panel at the front indicated that the whole thing wasn't just one large inflatable.

Riddlesden is a suburb of Keighley, but with NT's East Riddlesden Hall just down the road we expected something at least a tad rural. Instead, we've found ourselves tied up next to a building site! We want to visit the Hall, but it's closed today and tomorrow, so we're here for a couple of days. That will give us more time to get nervous about the very large waterways at which we shall shortly arrive.

Farewell to Skipton

So, finally, we've left "The Gateway to the Dales".

Cruising down to Kildwick gives marvellous views to both sides of Airedale, with villages of millgrit stone against a backdrop of hedged fields, clumps of trees and higher moorland.

This part of the journey is constantly interrupted by swing bridges.

They don't take as long to get through as a lock, unless (as occasionally happens) they are very stiff or tend to stick at some point.

By Bridge 183 is a memorial to some Polish airmen who were flying a Vickers Wellington bomber here during World War II when a wing strut failed, the wing fell off and and the aircraft crashed, with the death of all on board. The memorial is clearly still cared for by someone.

Completely oblivious to such events, by the bridge where Farnhill borders Kildwick, was this large duck, with two unseasonal and very small ducklings sheltering beneath and refusing to come out for the photo.

So this is the view from our window where we've tied up just past Kildwick. Just a few more nights at this level before we start the descent towards Leeds. We've been getting itchy feet, but we'll still be a little sorry to leave this wonderful part of the country.

Shepherd

Final weekend in Skipton (launderette visit today) meant a final visit to the folk club last night. One of my favourite musicians there is Julian, who mostly plays his accordion, either on its own or using it to accompany his lovely, rich voice.

Last night he played a beautiful air by Johnny Cunningham, and a couple of tunes by his brother Phil, breaking into something really fast to finish. It was the Johnny Cunningham piece that got me thinking about trying it on my own accordion. I've found it on Spotify, so I'll need to get some manuscript paper from Smith's – I find transcribing is a good first step when learning a tune like this.

There were just over half a dozen singers last night, so we got to do four songs each, two in each half. For my second two I decided to play two completely contrasting songs. The first was a blues by James Taylor, "A tree grows in my backyard" – about as blue as he got, and pretty depressing, unless you like fancy fingerwork. I followed it, as complete contrast and antidote, with Stuart Townend's version of the 23rd Psalm – "The Lord's my Shepherd". After all, the psalms in the Bible are among some of the oldest songs known to us, and I reckon the majority would pass any test for what constitutes a folk song.

The audience probably hadn't heard a psalm in the club before! They were generally very appreciative, and Julian commented particularly on it afterwards. But pity the guy who had to follow! He has a great voice and sings unaccompanied, often something a bit bawdy, which might have been difficult! So he chose to start with "Martin said to his man" or "Who's the fool now?" which is a ditty mainly about the foolish things you imagine when you're drunk. It's well known, and everyone joined in – a good choice.

So that's the end of our happy association with the Skipton Folk. It's been one of the highlights of our time here.