Tough decisions, backtracking and emergencies – one hell of a week

Making tough decisions that result in backtracking on plans, goals and going against peer pressure are always tough, even when the vociferous peers in question are total idiots. That’s what we encountered this week, the oddest week we’ve had in our years afloat to date.

We sat at Tarleton on the Lancashire coast last Saturday nervously watching rising winds and waiting for a decision at 9am on Sunday morning about whether the lock would be unlocked to allow us to make the tidal crossing to the Lancaster Canal. Around us others were gathering, and the 4 boats booked for the crossing were all like us checking and rechecking anchors and lifejackets. Nerves were evident among most, although it was also apparent there were one or two (male) boaters loudly dismissive of others’ fears and concerns.

Sunday morning came after a sleepless night. Lying awake and hearing the winds drop suddenly my stomach lurched – excitement or dread I wasn’t sure, but the howling winds would pick up once more. Dawn brought a clear decision – the winds were too strong to allow narrowboats to cross the Ribble Link.

We accepted the experts’ advice but then had to listen to some of the boaters berating the knowledgeable CRT staff who had taken time to bring the decision to us in person. We gathered that although the next day’s crossing was fully booked, we would be allowed to tag along if conditions allowed. Most if not all should get through, if the tide turned those at the back would have to go to a marina om Preston and wait there.

One vociferous boater maintained he’d crossed the Atlantic in far worse conditions (obviously not in a flat hulled narrowboat a fact he seemed to forget!). It reminded us that in every community, sadly, there will be those aggressively voicing their views, totally ignoring opinions of experts and unpleasantly dismissing the views of others. As their posturing got noisier, we moved away from boats to a bus, to Preston. Our day was well spent watching an otter play in the River Ribble and learning much of this cotton town’s hard history from a fascinating sculpture trail.

This week there were only 3 days when tides allowed outward passage if the weather was right – Sunday (when we were originally booked was cancelled because of high winds) Monday and Tuesday. Then at the end of the month there are a couple of days, again all fully pre-booked.

Sunday night was another anxious one with little sleep, listening to the winds, now hearing the rain thundering on the metal roof above us and regularly checking the forecast on our phones.

By Monday daybreak we’d been up for hours, gloomily squinting through the murk at the geese alongside us who seemed the only ones enjoying the torrential conditions. The winds were still strong, and we made the tough decision that even if the crossing could be made, it wouldn’t be made in those conditions by this crew and our old boat. Safety first, so we could have other years, other times to make this crossing.

When the knock came on the side of the boat the decision was that though winds were strong a crossing was doable. We relayed our decision that we would not be one of the 8 going, and went along in the torrential rain to wish the others well. Some said they respected the courage required to make our decision in the face of vocal opposition, and some (easy to guess who) were openly dismissive of our decision.

We waved them off, returned dripping and turned our boat in the torrential rain, very glad not to be heading out into tidal waters when we could hardly see ahead. We began a subdued trip back down the Rufford Arm, hugely disappointed that the tidal adventure we had planned and prepared for over the past year was at an end… for now.

We felt utterly deflated but knew it was the right decision for us. We are a team. Our boat is both our home and our office, so putting that at risk as well as putting both of us and Boatdog at risk is just not an option. The miserable weather echoed our feelings as we ploughed through winds, reeds, and weeds back the way we had come with such optimism and excitement just days before.

Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same thing, and that was what we felt as we headed back. We knew the high winds would put an unknown added strain on our engine and its quirky cooling system. We genuinely believed they could cope with the crossing in easier conditions. We weren’t prepared to literally throw caution to the winds, but we haven’t dismissed the Lancaster Canal forever – just for this year as crossings close in October and they are fully booked until then.

So as 7 newer boats headed across the Ribble Link we headed south, through rain, sun, and always with the winds buffeting us around. Through 7 quirky and often problematic locks and their time-consuming anti vandal locks we went, turning back finally onto the Leeds and Liverpool Canal feeling exhausted and emotionally drained.

We limped our exhausted way through a swing bridge and sought out a quiet, calm, rural spot away from roads and railways where we could recoup and regroup.  As soon as we found one, we moored up, ate our evening meal subdued by disappointment, and took ourselves off for an early night to catch up on much needed sleep.

At 3.15am loud male voices outside accompanied by hugely powerful torches woke us with a start. They were apparently splitting up and going in opposite directions, which they did. Fishermen? Boat thieves? Then they came back, and suddenly they were hammering on the side of our boat. Believe me – that’s heart-stoppingly alarming in the dead of the night. Their explanation was a little more reassuring: “Hello, hello, anyone in there? It’s the Fire Service.” Sure enough, a peek through the curtains showed yellow uniformed firemen bathing the towpath and canal in lights as bright as day.

They’d had a call about someone in the canal – did we know anything? Our somewhat befuddled reply that we’d been asleep was of little use to them, and they carried on searching for another 45 minutes before disappearing as suddenly as they’d arrived. They didn’t appear to find anyone, so was it a terrible timewasting hoax? We will probably never know.

It was difficult to get back to sleep after that, and we were somewhat slow to start the next morning but we did take time to formulate a new plan. We will now tackle the only cross Pennine route we haven’t faced, and currently the only one actually open, the Rochdale Canal. It felt good to have made a decision, and helped dispel both the weirdness of the night and the disappointment of the past days.

So we set off, back through Parbold, calling at Reynolds the Butchers, which was handy because it gave time for another boat, Phoenix, to catch up with us. Travelling together, we made light work of the 15 miles and 8 broad locks back to and through Wigan.

In Wigan someone was having a real crisis and passers by had called the North West Air Ambulance. The pilot landed with extreme skill by the canal’s dry dock lock on what seemed the tiniest patch of grass by the Rose Bruford College at Trencherfield Mill. He then came across to learn from us about lock mechanisms whilst he waited for updates from his paramedics and asked if he could push the gates for us when they were ready. Boaters never turn such an offer down!

We set off from there slightly stunned – fire and ambulance in one day, please please please, don’t let us need the police!  

Just as we left the final lock of the day, Poolstock bottom Lock our engine cut out, and we lost steering. We alarmed the multiple geese by drifting to the side of the canal alongside Scotsmans’ Flash, and headed down the weed hatch to see what had fouled the prop.

Steve was aghast to see a huge black mass jamming the propeller. His first horrified thought was “Oh Lord – have we picked up a body and carried it for miles to here?” Fortunately, more investiagion revealed not a coat with someone inside, but a tarpaulin which he easily removed, and we transported it off to the next bin to prevent it causing someone else issues.

As we moored up we made a donation to the North West Air Ambulance – the least we could do on such an odd day as a thanks for the help we’d been given, and the fact we’re still OK.

Now we’re heading for the Rochdale Canal – all 91 broad locks of it spanning 32 miles into and through the Pennines. Boasters who have completed the Rochdale recently have given us a Marmite impression of it.

“It almost broke us. Lack of water and general maintenance. We’ve never struggled so much.”

“Absolutely loved the Rochdale.”

 To get there though we have to make it through Manchester. The issue with canals, as other communities, and as we found with the tidal crossing is that so many boaters have opinions to voice about every route, and all are often conflicting. Listening to the chatter, much on social media can give you pause for thought. In terms of the journey through Manchester, many of whose locks are underground, in the past 24 hours I’ve seen these comments:

“Underground was amazing and the locks were somewhat different but worked well.”

“Dirty, poorly maintained, strewn with needles and capsules, urine infested and down right dangerous. Homeless vagrants in sleeping bags and a young man who jumped on our boat and threatened us.”

“It’s never been an easy passage, in common with many urban canals it can be challenging.”

What I wonder will we find? Hopefully another boat to share the locks and journey with but either way, another experience, another adventure. 

One thing we’ve already experienced is the need to be ready for delays – and it could be a while before we can even get onto the Rochdale now.

Maybe Monday will bring news – can we? If not where should we go because we only have a licence to be here on the privately owned Bridgewater Canal for 7 day? Who knows where we may end up!