he statue of Derbyshire-born James Brindley, father of the canal network in the Midlands and beyond, stands proudly beside the junction of the Trent and Mersey Canal and the Caldon. It was taken over by the North Staffordshire Railway Company who filled in part of the canal for their track along the narrow Churnet Valley. Once linking the Potteries with Uttoxeter, the Caldon served to transport pig iron and coal in and out of Consall Forge about six miles south of Leek. Now one of the prettiest and most secluded tree-filled valleys in the western Peak, it is hard to realise that this tranquil haunt of wildlife was once the site of intensive industry. Until they were worked out, rich iron ore deposits along the surrounding hillsides created a massive industry in the nineteenth century.
One of the least modernised pubs in Derbyshire, the Black Lion, sits beside the canalised section of the River Churnet, opposite once water-powered open hearth iron smelters; their massive stone walls are all that remains of this long gone industry. The pub sits amidst trees and can only be reached either by one of the many footpaths criss-crossing the valley, or, as we did by boat. Having enjoyed many a pint of Marston's Pedigree at the Black Lion when walking in the Churnet Valley, it seemed a logical target to aim for on what was to become a voyage of epic proportions.
With my crew of wife Vera, friends Sheila and Gordon, we were introduced to our floating home for the next three days, the good ship 'Grace', Black Prince Canal Holidays' Duchess 4 class canal narrowboat. It is many years since Vera and I did any canal cruising, so we were totally unprepared for the luxury accommodation within the 58 foot 3/8th steel-hulled vessel. Powered by a state of the art marine diesel, we had electric light, a TV (although it must be admitted that reception was a bit hit and miss), fridge, four-point gas cooker and oven, lounge area, twin beds, central heating and last but far from least, a flush toilet and shower with unlimited hot water. In fact everything from bedding to loo paper was provided; there was even an offer to do the pre-voyage shopping for us. This was what Vera described as her idea of comfort on the canal.
'Grace' was moored beside the Trent and Mersey Canal outside Stoke-on-Trent and with the minimum fuss we chugged out into a comparatively wide stretch of canal, a good place to get the feel of the tiller which I quickly learned had to be pushed hard, and I mean hard, in the opposite direction to which I wanted to go. For a car driver this is even harder than it sounds and, as Gordon succinctly put it, 'tillers are not power assisted!' After a half mile of rather wobbly cruising when no one else was around to see my zig-zagging course, and paying homage to Brindley's statue, we turned into the Caldon Canal and the first of fifteen locks to be worked (see how quickly one learns the technical terms), both on the outward and return part of the trip. Not only was it the first, but also the most difficult lock, but here we were helped by lock keeper extraordinaire Phil, who despite the strong wind blowing, showed me how to guide the boat into the lock and taught the crew how to open the paddles that let in the water without swamping the boat effectively 'trapped' in the narrow confines of the slimy lock. For my part I had to ensure I wasn't over the 'cill' the ledge on which the lock gates sit when closed. If I was too close and allowed the stern to sit on the cill it would have tipped the bow under water at the front. Not a pleasant prospect. This lock, known as Bedford Street Lock, is the only surviving staircase lock in north Staffordshire which means that you go through two sets of adjacent locks controlled by three gates.
Saying goodbye to Phil, we nervously chugged on through the industrial heartland of Hanley, passing venerable pot-banks, those strange bottle-shaped kilns used for firing pottery, along the way. With gathering confidence we entered Planet Lock, a doddle compared to Bedford Street, then on for a mile or so without incident, apart from bumping the sides as we passed through narrow openings beneath bridges. One thing Black Prince Holidays do stress is that the boats are strong (3/8th steel, remember), and will take any knocks a novice is likely to give them. All bridges are numbered and it was as we approached Bridge Number 11, that we realised it was not quite the same as the others. This one not only carried busy traffic, but it was low, very low, so low that it dawned on us that this was the first of six draw bridges we had to deal with. A quickly convened meeting reminded us that Phil had explained how to work this bridge. Unlike the other five which are wound up and down by hand, this one was worked by an electric motor, for which we had a key. Armed with this symbol of power, Sheila marched off along the tow path and, after a moment's confusion, turned on the power which not only dropped a barrier to stop cars falling in the canal, but lifted the bridge. Giving a royal wave to patiently waiting motorists, one of whom admitted he had never seen the bridge open, I sailed through the gap without hazard, and remembering to collect Sheila, carried on regardless. |
The Inland Waterways Board is busy repairing long stretches of the canal bank, and they seemed to concentrate on places where it was difficult to pass their tethered work boat, but this we did. Another lock and two swing bridges later, we were hailed by a young lad who tried to cadge a lift. Something about him warned us off, and almost at once a police helicopter seemed to take an interest in us. It must have been in touch with a posse of about eight or nine foot police who began to move towards us and at which the lad ran off through nearby fields, only to be trapped by them. We never found out what he was in trouble for.
The highest point of the Caldon Canal is at Hazelhurst where a branch canal swings away to the left towards Leek, only to cross the main canal by a magnificent brick aqueduct a half mile further on. The three locks and the lock house at Hazelhurst are one of the most frequently photographed sections of the Caldon. Built in 1842, the locks have side ponds to save water, and it was here we chose to spend our first night afloat. One thing about canal cruising is that lifting and raising lock paddles, or struggling with the tiller, works up an appetite and we were not long out of bed and a good night's sleep. Up bright and early next morning to a slight drizzle, we dropped quickly through the locks and went steadily past the Hollybush at Denford, which had we known is where we could have moored for the previous night. Anyway there was the Black Lion at Consall and the pint of Pedigree to spur us on. Cheddleton was the next port of call, or at least the restored flint mill, although it was closed as we passed on the outward journey. At Bridge 48 and Oakmeadow Ford Lock, the canal enters the river Churnet, where a warning told us not to enter if the water was above a certain point on a board. But search as I could there was no board, perhaps it was under water, so with trepidation we chugged out into the gentle river's flow. Here we entered the prettiest sections of the canal. Herons swooped low overhead, or stalked silently from the side marshes. We didn't see the iridescent blue flash of a kingfisher, but they do live in the Churnet. What we did see was the first swallow of the year, the single vanguard of summer.
The Black Lion suddenly came up on the port bow. This was not quite journey's end, for we had to turn and do the whole set of fifteen locks and six swing bridges, together with fifteen miles of twisting and turning canal all over again, but in the opposite direction. Mooring opposite the old kilns, we crossed the little bridge to reach the pub where never has a pint of Pedigree tasted better.
According to received information we could turn the 58ft boat in the pool below the Black Lion. It is here that the river and canal part company with the river disappearing over a rather powerful weir. Everything seemed to be going to plan and I had the boat in what my wife calls a 'thirty-three point turn', when a bump told me we were firmly aground both fore and aft. Boats come equipped with large poles for such eventualities, but no amount of pushing from the bow, and with the weir dangerously close, I realised that the boat was longer than the width of the pool. Fortunately another boat arrived and rather than watch our struggles, a very kind gentleman came and took hold of a line from our stern so that by his pulling, the crew pushing the bow and me putting the engine into forward and reverse, we ended up facing the right way. One thing about canal life is that everyone is very friendly and ready to help. The other boat incidentally continued a little further along the canal where there is a wider pool, and so avoided our problems. Spending another night on board, this time at Park Lane mooring where, with the appropriate key, it is possible to use a well equipped launderette, as well as (as we did), fill up the water tank. A frosty morning gave way to a gloriously sunny day and in enjoying the warmth we sauntered on for another mile only to stop for early coffee at Fine Feathers, a farm.
Apart from getting stuck avoiding a boat which appeared swinging wide around a blind bend, the journey back to Stoke was uneventful with the last night fittingly spent beneath the benevolent gaze of James Brindley, canal builder.
With thanks to crew Sheila, Gordon and Vera, and Black Prince Narrowboat Holidays.
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