ve minutes after leaving the Black Prince Etruria base on the Trent and Mersey Canal, we had to phone back to ask how to switch the engine off. We weren't novices - this was our fourth narrow boat trip - but it was late in the day and we obviously hadn't listened properly. Once we'd mastered this, and negotiated the Bedford Street Locks -an intimidating, house-high staircase construction - dusk was falling fast on the Caldon Canal.
We'd been warned against the tempting moorings in Hanley Park ("it's an urban park, with all that en- tails"), so we passed Bridgewater's canalside china shop and sailed on into the dilapidation of the Potteries. To each side were cracked bottle ovens, abandoned buildings, and concrete yards sprouting grass. We finally moored by a factory under the glare of a bright security light.
It wasn't the most encouraging start, but our choice of the Caldon Canal turned out to be inspired. Originally we'd planned to do the Four Counties Ring. However, when we announced our plan to the nautical-looking man with blue jersey and grey beard, he regarded us levelly and pushed over a sheet drawn up for just such optimists as ourselves. Itemising locks and miles (94 and 110), he counselled us that constant slogging would be necessary to complete it in a week. We settled instead for the Caldon Canal, a spur of a dozen miles above Stoke-on-Trent, once the M1 of pottery boats, but now utterly tranquil.
It still has plenty of locks and bridges, however. Our first hurdle in daylight was the Ivy House Electric Lift Bridge, which involved lowering banters across a road and the prospect of holding up traffic while we amateurs coped.
Early Sunday morning was good - we held up only one car, and the elderly couple in it waved cheerfully as though they had thoroughly enjoyed being kept waiting. We soon got the hang of the locks, taking it in turns to wind paddles, push gates and lean on bridges while water rushed in or drained out.
A narrow boat holiday is a particularly relaxing form of strenuous activity, interspersed as it is with these delightfully necessary periods of standing and staring. The contrast between urban and rural was sudden: one minute we were steering past allotments with high- rise pigeon lofts and chicken runs, the next we were suddenly passing through fields and woodland. | Past a bridge fastened with a plaque reading Carlton Ceramics Anglers' Club, we came to a line of fishermen. We slowed down, apologising as they lifted their rods like a ceremonial arch, and felt obliged to engage in conversation. "We haven't done this for a while," we said to the first. "Just go along the middle," he said genially "What do you catch?" we said to the second. "Roach, skimmy, a bit of perch: a good mix." And so to the last in line: "Sorry," we said again, smiling ingratiatingly "You're all right," he said. "And by the way, your kettle's boiling." And I dashed back to the galley to make a cup of tea.
Such congeniality set a marker for all our encounters. Towpath walkers advised on bird life or added their weight to lock gates. Our sense of well-being was enhanced by our sense of isolation. Until the 1980s, in the final concerted commercial use of a canal in Britain, specially built crockery craft sped along the Caldon, cre- ating tidal waves in their wake. It ' was hard to believe now that we were still close to one of the most industrial parts of England. We saw herons, kingfishers, blackcaps, 'hawks - and ostriches. That last was a bit of a surprise, but we discovered we were passing Fine Feathers rare breeds farm. As with all canal trips, simple excursions to the pub or to the shops became significant events: the changing of the window display in Milton's second-hand bookshop between our two visits seemed hugely interesting. As the bookshop owner chatted to a customer, he broke off to say "Cup of tea? Or are you in a dash?" She wasn't. And neither were we.
Of course, our trip wasn't all plain sailing. Past Oakmeadow Ford Lock, in the Churnet Valley, we got inextricably grounded. I blame the kingfisher, darting ahead, which I was watching rather than steering. Try as we might we could not dislodge the boat, until I suggested we jump in the water and push it off. It was easy enough, although scrambling back on again was not.
And at Cheddleton we lost the boat. We left it by the old flint mill, with its water wheel and small in- dustrial museum - in the past there were also silk and paper mills and a brewery - and went to stock up. We strolled back to find our boat had drifted to the far side of the canal. But such was our state of calm by then that we knew all would end well. Pete, the skipper of the Beatrice Charity boat "for children who need to get afloat", had been "putting his mind to the problem". Under his instructions we sought out the owner of the flower-covered mill cottage, busy in his workshop, to borrow his dinghy
The shadow of long-ago industry hangs incongruously over the Caldon. A landslip prevented us reaching the remote wharf of Froghall, which was a shame, because I'd wanted to see the copper wire works of Thomas Bolton. The firm had its own fleet of narrow boats and was turned over to munitions production during the war. Appar- ently the Luftwaffe tried to bomb the factory, but couldn't find it in the heavily wooded hills. | Our terminus was Consall Forge, with its steam railway station and cantilevered red-and-cream waiting room overhanging the channel. The scene was positively bucolic, with cows up to their knees in the adjoining river. But across the water from the Black Lion pub was a restored limestone trim, a reminder that this was once a hub of furious activity with forges, furnaces and mills. In the 1860s, 30 barges a day were carrying out limestone and iron ore. Tranquilli- ty should not be mistaken for navigational dullness.
At Hazelhurst Junction, the Leek branch of the canal achieves the breathtaking feat, by means of locks and aqueducts, of turning back on itself several feet higher and passing over the adjacent wa- terway. We were on our big expedition of the week, to Leek on market day. The impressive Leek Tunnel - the tunnel pool is de- scribed as "one of the most idyllic spots on the system" - led to our only disappointment. With just a feeble feeder to Rudyard Lake (re- sponsible for providing Kipling's first name), the canal bed is filled in, so the way to town lies along an unlovely path between industrial units and a livestock market. But the pretty market town is worth the trek, with its antique shops and Greystones, an award-winning tea-room in a Georgian house. We met a bevy of Germans who had been cruising in the Potteries and asked them why they'd come here. So much more interesting than Continental canals, they said, with the mix of industry and countryside. We knew just what they meant.
On our last night we moored opposite the Etruria Industrial Mu- seum, near the statue of James Brindley, to whom we owed our hol- iday. Unfortunately this engineer and architect of canals caught pneumonia when surveying the Caldon Canal and died. So he never got a chance to appreciate fully this gem among canals. I'm glad we did. |
