Goole to Liverpool walk by canal tow-path.
Day 1. Wed 14th July 2010.
Goole to Southfield Reservoir, Pollington.
It's always best to begin a story at the beginning and this one will be no different. It's quite a long story but not half as long as the 170+ mile walk it's about. My journey would have to begin in my home town of Mansfield where I would take various buses to Goole to begin my walk across England to Liverpool. This won't cost me a penny in bus fares 'cos I'm an old guy who qualifies for a bus-pass that allows me free travel to most places of UK on service buses.
Peter and Dorothy - two of my MySpace friends who have turned into REAL LIFE friends - surprised me by turning up at the bus station in Mansfield as I awaited the 10 am bus to Sheffield. My wife had dropped me off earlier but had to shoot off to keep a doctors appointment. Peter and Dorothy spent quite a bit of time and effort in filming and photographing me from all angles. I felt like a Beatle landing in the USA. They saw me off in great style too, and soon I was on my way.
At Sheffield I changed busses for one to Doncaster and then at Doncaster one more bus change took me the rest of the way to Goole where I arrived at about 3:30 in the afternoon. I left the bus, hoisted my 30lb pack onto my back, picked up my brolly and straight away made for the start of the walk where I knew there were at least three pubs that I hoped to get B&B and rest up before starting the walk the following morning.
It was about a half to three quarters of mile to the start and when I arrived I walked straight into the bar of The Vermuyden Hotel and asked if they could do me a room for the night. But they informed me that they no longer functioned as a hotel, it's now just a pub. I asked if they knew of anywhere else in the immediate area but that was negative too. Then one of the customers chimed in and suggested a hotel that was situated back the way I'd come. (This is quite common when I'm in a pub asking for digs, and it's exactly why I do it.) She took me outside and pointed in the general direction of the hotel she'd recommended giving me directions as she waved her arms about.
“Go down 'ere. Take the second on the right. Follow the second road around to your left, over the bridge, through the gate. Take a right and follow the road to the end, turn left and the hotel's on the right.”
So I did all that for about half a mile, crossed two metal bridges, went down an alley by the docks, through a gate and..... finished up in a dead end at a barred and locked steel gate. I thought maybe I'd took a wrong turn at the start and proceeded to retrace my steps and try again. I tried again down another street and finished up in another dead end. So I thought bugger! I'll go back to the Vermuyden and start the walk instead of hunting for B&B.
At the Vermuyden the woman was just leaving with a man.“Did you find it?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I got a bit lost, twice!" They offered to take me part of the way there so we set off down the road, took the second left, crossed two metal bridges and then he said.“See that big white building just across there?” I agreed I could see it. “Well the hotel X is just behind that.” And with that and a few thank-yous I left them and made my way to the hotel.
It was closed down and boarded up!!
I decided for the second time that afternoon to forget about B&B's and set off on the walk. It was now 4:30 in the afternoon and I'd already lost an hour and walked about two or three. But I was on my way to Liverpool....... and it started raining.
The start is just opposite the Vermuyden Hotel. The hotel name is taken from the Dutchman who designed and built much of the canal system and the first stretch of the path is alongside The Dutch River for a couple of hours before turning into the Aire and Calder Navigation. I took a few pics to give some indication of the start of the walk including a big industrial building and one or two shots of the marina.
It wasn't long before the sun went behind the clouds and the rain began to pitter-patter down. It very soon turned quite nasty and was coming down in stair-rods. So the camera was put into its waterproof bag for better times ahead.
The rain just kept on and on but my brolly did a fair job of keeping me and my back-pack dry. I did get short breaks of fine weather which encouraged me but mostly it was wet and miserable. The tow-path is quite high up and exposed and very soon the rain and wind strengthened, thunder and lightning echoed around me and swirling wind tried to uproot me from the canal and turn me into Mary Poppins. My brolly couldn't cope with this sort of treatment and decided a time or two to turn itself inside out. I was fast becoming soaked to the skin and in grave danger of attracting a lightning strike.
After about an hour of this I decided to seek shelter and safety. I came off the tow-path at New Bridge and took to the road. There was just one house on my right and I opened the five barred gate and with the lightning forking, the wind swirling and the rain coming horizontal I approached the rear door of the house and rang the bell. Through the patterned glass I could see a man approach the door and he opened it a fraction.
“Excuse me,” I began. “I'm looking for shelter for the night. Anything will do. Garage floor, shed outbuilding, caravan. Anything. I'll pay!”
“Sorry, mate. We've no room here,” he said. “You could try the village over yonder.” He suggested, pointing back towards where I'd just been
struggling to walk along the tow-path.
“How far back?” I asked.
“Ooooh, baht arf an hour ah should think.” He said sorry again, and closed the door.
Bugger! I let myself out of the gate and onto the road. I decided to press on westward towards my goal but keep to the road for a while. I headed north for a bit and then took a road to my left. Mercifully the rain and wind abated and I could take down my brolly. The sun popped its head out of the clouds and soon I was starting to dry out. I knew that this lane would take me to Southfield Reservoir and by now it was getting late.
At about 8:00 I had reached a track that ran parallel to the canal and was heading in the right direction towards the reservoir. After about a quarter of an hour I was there. There was a nice patch of flattish short grassed area and some people fishing. I approached one of these men and asked if it would be OK for me to camp there for the night. Yes, he said. Can't see any problem as he had seen other's camp there overnight before.
So I went well away from where they were casting and kicked off some of the duck and goose droppings and prepared to erect my little tent.
“Whaaaaaaaaat ya doin!” came a voice from behind my back. It was a little cherubic boy of about four years, smiling from ear to there.
“I'm putting up my tent.” I replied.
“Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?” he asked.
“'Cos I'm tired and I want to get some sleep.”
“What's this?” he asked, picking up a tent peg.
“It's a tent peg to hold the tent down so's it don't blow away.”
“Can I have it?”
“No ya can't, now go and see what your mum wants.”
Mum was calling her boy to come to her. She was a good fifty yards away.
He ignored her and started collecting tent pegs and then moved off with them.
“Oy!” I called. “Gimme them back 'else I can't put my tent up.” I had to chase him to get 'em back and having done so I carried on over to his mum, and he came too. I explained to her that I needed to get some shut-eye and told her my plans. She assured me that she'd keep little Joshua under control so I returned to the task of erecting my tent.
“Whaaaaat ya doing?” was back before I'd finished my work. I pushed everything into the tent and climbed in myself. Joshua was at the door, watching, as I squirrelled myself inside and then zipped up the doors. I leaned into the tent wall as I endeavoured to remove my wet socks and combat trousers and Joshua must have thought this an invitation to hit it.
“Oy! Bugger off!” I shouted. I heard his mum call him to her and then heard little four year old Joshua bid me goodnight.
“Fat bastard!” he called out, and fled back to his mum.
I was on my way.
Day 2. 15th July 2010.
The Southfield Reservoir/Pollington to Castleford.
I spent the most uncomfortable night EVER in my little single skin tent.
After Joshua and the rest of the fisher-folk had gone home it was the turn of the terns, the grebes, the Canada Geese and all the rest of the bird population to announce their presence on the water. Why is it that they have to kick up such a racket before retiring for the night. They didn't shut up until well after dark and when they did it was time for the rain to start falling again. It came down quite fast and flattened my tented cover down and I spent a lot of time inside my sleeping-bag trying to avoid touching the wet sides of the tent. Sleep came in fits and starts but eventually I was away in deep sleep and oblivious to what was going on around me.
I awoke at one time and thought I was back home in bed with my missus. I needed the toilet and was just about to quietly slide my leg out of bed when I realised where I was. D'oh! Instead of making my way to our bathroom I reached for my urine bottle. These are great devices that alleviate the need to struggle out of the tent to do ones business in the bush and then get back inside. A boon especially if the weather isn't agreeable. I even use this facility in B&B's where the bathroom may be quite a way away. After carefully replacing the cap I then took a swig from my Manchester United water bottle. It's best if I don't confuse these two bottles in the dark.
I managed to drop off to sleep again and no sooner had I than I was awakened by the dawn chorus. It was 4:25 in the am and just getting light. I could hear the pitter-patter of rain and felt reluctant to get up out of my bed and start de-camping. But then it stopped abruptly. I began dressing for the day in the confines of that little shelter. It was almost impossible so I ended up outside the tent in my T-shirt and under-crackers, standing in wet grass and fishing clothes from inside the tent as if it was some sort of lucky-dip tub.
Eventually I was reasonably dressed and booted and I packed away my wet tent. I loaded everything I had either into or onto the
back-pack (apart from yesterday's sodden socks which I dumped in a litter bin), slung it across my shoulders and with apple in hand I began day two of my walk to Liverpool along the path.
I'd gone barely a quarter of a mile when the path suddenly ended at the water's edge! There was a thirty yard stretch of open water between me and the opposite bank and it was dotted by the stumps of rotted posts that used to support a wooden bridge. I was on a narrow spit of land surrounded on three sides by deep water! The previous evening I'd walked the wrong path and I now had to retrace my steps back to the road, cross the bridge and take the path on the other side of the canal. Bugger! So I now had a twenty minute walk back to the road and then another twenty minute walk to bring me abreast of where I already was!
In fact I wasted almost a whole hour before I was level with my camp-site. It was now almost 6:00 AM but at last I could make progress once more and had a spring to my step. I had to make a left turn down the New Union Canal and cross over it via a foot bridge to rejoin The Aire and Calder Navigation which - along with the Knottingly and Goole canal - SHOULD take me all the way to Leeds. I did think of getting off the tow-path and walking through Pollington but there was no point as all the pubs and any shops would have been shut. I stuck with the canal. The weather was now quite reasonable but rain threatened.
The weather had really brightened up now, and so I decided to have a rest in the fresh air while the sun and the breeze did its best to dry out my sodden tent. I stretched it across a fence and tethered it so's it wouldn't get blown away and then made myself comfortable on the lowest tread of the stile with a Nutty-Crunch bar and a drink from my water bottle. I just hoped that nobody would come along and disturb me. They didn't.
Just before Nottingly I had to leave the canal 'cos there was only private access to the waterway banks. I took to the road and searched for a pub. It was now raining quite heavily and my brolly was doing a grand job at keeping me dryish, once again.
I arrived in the town around about lunch time but couldn't find a pub that was open. In fact three of the pubs I found were boarded up, closed probably for ever. I hadn't had a drink since the day before I left for this walk and I was now getting desperate for a Guinness. So I decided to say goodbye to Nottingly and press on towards Ferry Bridge, the power-station cooling towers of which loomed large on the horizon. But before I'd managed get back on the canal tow-path I did manage to find a pub. And it was open! Stripped of my back-pack, my “waterproof” coat and mercifully my boots, I spent the next hour luxuriating in relative comfort and two pints of foaming stout.
Eventually I had to prise myself out of the couch, dress, load my pack onto my shoulders and make my way out of the door to find the footpath again. This was more difficult than it should have been but probably had a little to do with the booze. Anyway, I eventually found a path and followed it to Brotherton where again I got a little bit lost and had to ask the way to the canal. Eventually I was back on it and finished up for the day in Castleford.
Finding places to stay isn't as easy as one might think. I'm never quite sure just how far I'll get on any given day so pre-booking isn't an option. But I do have tried and tested means of tracking lodgings down.
I mentioned one in the previous chapter where I enter a pub and ask in a clear voice if they did B&B HOPING that someone might overhear and suggest Mrs Miggins just down the road. There's also the helpful taxi driver or his controller and then the police. This time I'd tried the nearest pub with no luck so when I spotted the police station I just breezed in and put the question.
“There's The Magnet, just up the hill. Pontefract Road. They do good food, too,” said the policeman at the desk, adding. “It isn't far.” He must have seen how knackered I was, though some of it was a sympathy act. I thanked him for his trouble and advice and set off up Pontefract Road. It was quite a steep up hill walk that seemed to go on for ever.
After about twenty minutes I was ready to doss down in the bus shelter. I asked a passing human where this Magnet Pub was and he said it was just up the hill, not far. I could have gladly killed him with the contents of my piss bottle (I'd forgotten to empty the result of last nights ablutions and had carried the bloody stuff for the last twenty ruddy miles.)
But none-too-soon I was there. I went into the pub, doffed my back-pack and stacked it alongside my brolly in a quiet corner of the pub with comfortable seating and went to order another pint of Guinness and enquire about a room.
“Well we just have the one room available and it's a family sized room with no en-suite.” While she was talking she'd reached a key from the back of the counter and ushered me through another bar, through the dining room and past the kitchens to THE room. “The bathroom is on the next floor.... this is the room. It's £25 per night with no breakfast but for an extra £1 you can help yourself to a dinner in the carvery this evening.”
I could have hugged and kissed her.
That evening I had a sumptuous meal of half a roast chicken with ALL the trimmings and another couple of pints of Guinness/Stout. A really hot bath and a very good night's sleep.
Day 3. 16th July 2010.
Castleford to Shipley.
I slept the sleep of the dead and at 4:30 AM (ish) was wide awake
and raring to hit the trail. The city of Leeds was my first target to see if I could locate our grandson Peter who – though on holiday - may be up there in his student accommodation. If he is there, I may have a short day walking and cadge a few feet of space on his floor and have half a day rest. It'd be nice to meet up and maybe get dinner and a few drinks in the City.
However, first things first. I sorted through my gear and decided to scrap an England T-Shirt that I'd been wearing since day one. (It should be white and red but my missus's washing had turned it into a girly pink, which, on reflection would be more befitting of our football team, seeing as they played like a bunch of girls.) I put on another that is exactly the same style and colour and THAT England shirt too will be dumped after a few days wear. I also dumped a long sleeved shirt that was as high as a kite.
I was out of the door by 4:45 and on my way back into town to rejoin the Aire and Calder Navigation. It was fine with a very low sun peeping above the horizon. My pace was quite brisk having off-loaded a bit of baggage AND remembered to empty my urine bottle. As I still had plenty of food supplies in the shape of an apple and about a dozen high protein biscuits, I hadn't yet bought any more on the way, my pack was a little lighter. I passed by a beautiful looking canal-side pub and couldn't resist taking a pic of it. The walking was becoming a little more interesting. This part of the course is also known as the Trans-Pennine Trail. It follows the route of the canals for the most part.
Past Allerton Bywater, Mickletown and the oil storage depot at Woodlesford (how much more romantic than that can it be?) the sun was casting long shadows along the path. To my right is a huge area of land that has been designated as a protected nature reserve where visitors are welcome to walk and take in the beauty of nature. There are wide expanses of water which are home to many birds and well stocked with fish. Apart from the sounds of nature it is eerily quiet. I stopped for a while to rest, eat a biscuit, drink water and swallow my daily intake of pills. Yes, I'm a druggie. If one counts aspirin, multivitamins, cod liver oil capsules, blood-pressure tablets and prostate relaxing capsules.
But I can control my addiction.
I'd only been on the path for a bit less than four hours when I spotted the stone milepost that declared LEEDS 4. I thought that was pretty good going and again it put a spring in my step. I rested again on a seat by a lock and took in a brass Memorial Plaque screwed to it. It was in memory of some young 16 year lad who'd drowned there just a few short years ago. It was such a lovely setting that I couldn't quite take in the enormity of such a sad loss. But having said that, I always feel that I've been fortunate to survive such fate as he had succumbed to when as an adventurous devil-may-care boy I escaped drowning, falling from a goodly height or being run down by a steam train.
The next set of locks I came to I took a power nap. This involves taking my bed-roll off the back-pack, and rolling it out on a flat sheltered surface. Then, using the pack as my pillow and with my boots off, I lie on my back for ten or twenty minutes with my eyes closed. It works for me.
Upwards and onwards I reached the start of The Leeds Liverpool canal in the centre of Leeds just after 10:00am. I rang my missus and told her where I was and then went to find a cafe. Five minutes later I was sat in "The Yum Yum" café supping a mug of tea with a full English breakfast ordered. I rang my grandson Peter but was put through to answer-phone so I left a brief message and left my phone switched on. I normally don't leave it switched on 'cos I don't carry a charger. It's just for clocking in (telling the missus exactly where I am and where I'm billeted) and emergency use. Anyway, I'd finished my breakfast about half an hour later and Peter hadn't got back to me so I switched it off and made my way out to begin walking the Leeds to Liverpool canal.
An hour or so later I'd found a pub that was open and had my first Guinness/Milk Stout of the day. I stopped by at another one a few hours later at Horsforth to ask if they did B&B. The landlord replied
in the negative and suggested that Shipley might be a better bet. I thanked him and made myself comfortable for the best part of the next hour while I had a couple of pints of the black stuff with my boots off and feet up, stretched out on a couch. Lovely.
Well, enjoyable and comfortable as it was it was time for me to move on. A bridge or three later I decided to come off the canal and make my way into Shipley by road while calling in likely places and asking about B&B. One guy pointed me towards a hotel called The Calvery.
“Just take a left at the next road junction, follow the road up the hill and the Calvery Hotel is at the top on the left.”
I took him at his word and set off up hill. I took the left and carried on uphill. I was knackered already from the days walking but I slogged on getting further and further away from the canal. Uphill slog, uphill, slog, uphill slog. I had to rest. I'd come about a mile up this steep hill and still no sign of getting to the top. I rested on a wall. A middle-aged woman was also struggling up the hill from the same direction as I. I felt a little for her 'cos she was carrying bags of shopping. As she drew level with me I asked her if there was a hotel called The Calvery around here. Yes, she said. It's just at the top of the hill on the left.
I pressed on. I staggered on. Eventually I was at the hotel. It looked very posh and very pricey but what the hell, just as long as I can get in, have a bath and flop down onto a comfortable bed. I walked straight through the wide doors down the hall and into a bar. Having off-loaded my bag and parked my brolly etc. somewhere safe I approached the bar. I asked if they could do me me a single for just one night.
“It's £59.95 per night per person, is that OK with you?”
I was tempted to exclaim “HOW MUCH!!!” but I didn't. What self control I have when my mind is disparate.
“Yes that'll be OK, do you have a room?”
“I'll just go check,” the man said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, please. I'll have a pint of Guinness.”
He pulled this foaming pint, deftly carved a shamrock in the head and on handing it to me said:“That's £3.90.” “HOW MUCH!!!”
I went and sat down in a faint, still gripping tight hold of my wet glass. A few minutes later he came back to me and informed me that he was very sorry but all the rooms were taken. So even at almost sixty quid, all the rooms were full. Bugger!
After finishing my pint I took out my map and compass and put myself on a heading back towards the canal. My course didn't take me back the way I'd come but sort of at right angles to it. After a few hundred yards I came across another pub. This time it was a cheap and cheerful one that was full of atmosphere and old men. I didn't intend purchasing any more beer but just went up to the bar and asked if they did B&B or knew anywhere in the vicinity that did. After a bit of a discussion the landlord/manager came up with one that was situated down the road I was travelling and about the third left turn, a road called Apperley Road. It was about halfway up this road and on the right.
I thanked him and set off. At least the first part was down hill and in the general direction of the canal. I'd walked about half a mile when I spotted the sign Apperley Road and set off up hill again. Now then... I ask you... how far is half way up a road when the road
bends and you can never see the top of it? 100 yards. 500 yards? 1000 yards? 2000? I know this much, I was almost dead on my sore feet. I'd almost given up ever finding it when a young woman came out of her house.
“Excuse me, luv. Is there a B&B around here somewhere?”
“Yes,” she said. “It's about halfway up on this side.”
I eventually reached number 23 Apperley Road, Shipley. A small, neat mid-terrace house with a tiny front garden. A notice in the window declared NO VACANCIES.
D'oh! After taking my pack off I collapsed on their steps. Took out my water bottle and almost drained it in one gulp. I sat there reflecting and considering my next action. And then it came to me. I could ask the landlady at this B&B if she knows of anyone in this area that does the same! Yippee!
I rang the bell. The door bell was answered by a man. Before he could say anything I declared that I could see that he had no vacancies but wondered if he could put me in touch with someone who did.
“Take no notice of that notice. We do have room but we're in the middle of decorating so I put up that sign out deter would-be guests. Come in.”
So I was in at 23 Apperley Road, Shipley. Nicely decorated room, en-suite facilities with no breakfast but a distinct aroma of fresh paint. It suited me down to the ground 'cos it meant that I could be up and on my way at first light without having to hang about waiting to be served breakfast. Inside half an hour I was washed and changed into my night attire watching TV while lying in a comfortable bed.
Day 4. 17th July 2010.
Shipley to Gargrave.
It was six thirty in the morning when I managed to drag my sorry backside from my comfortable bed. My blisters were giving me a bit of gyp but I've always maintained that more walking will cure blisters. And anyway it's only my big toes and little toes that are suffering. I
made myself a cup of tea and ate an energy biscuit so's I could take my medication. I refilled my water bottle, packed my bag and quietly left the building. I'd already squared up the bill the night before so there was nothing keeping me. There was just a fine drizzle falling as I hoisted my umbrella and made my way back down the hill to rejoin the canal about thirty minutes later.
My intention was to get to Skipton and look for digs there. The walk was getting a little more interesting and picturesque despite the incessant rain. Lots of photo opportunities which I achieved by making sure the camera was always under the brolly and then stowed carefully away in its case. Some of the locks formed a staircase that took the boats many feet up to a different level. It's quite a slow process and a man can actually walk the canals from one side of the country to the other FASTER than the canal boats can make it.
Shortly after Bingley I came across the memorial to a bunch of Polish airmen who lost their lives when their bomber crashed her during the last great war. A quiet and lonely place where I spent a few moments reflecting on the enormity of such a tragic loss. I took a few snaps of the monument, too so I could maybe share a little of the poignancy that I was feeling at the time. Such young airmen, too. They'd hardly begun to live when their lives were abruptly cut short.
I would have been three years old at the time and now I'm approaching my twilight years, thanks in no small way to people such as those young guys. War is such a waste. A waste of lives. A waste of finances. A waste of time.
Maybe it's time to move on. I have to find a pub soon else I'll dehydrate. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. It's marvellous how few and far between pubs are when one wants one. It's just the same with places to sit and take stock, like benches. For miles one doesn't see a pub that is open, or a bench and then suddenly one comes across a veritable gaggle of the buggers. It's just the same when one is waiting for a bus. No busses for ages and then a herd of 'em turn up. Just one more picture of the Polish airmens' monument and then I'll move on to find that pub.
It would have been about 2:30 in the afternoon when I reached Low Bradley. I immediately found a pub just off the canal and made myself comfortable with my boots off and a Guinness. I must have spent a good half hour or so supping a horrible pint of stout. I think it was called something like Farmers Jockstrap or Old Maids Piss or something similar. It tasted like a farmer's jockstrap had been steeped in it. It took me ages to finish it. Well, waste not want not. I bid the landlord good day and took my leave. Skipton was just around the corner and I intended staying there.
How wrong could I be. I tried by all my means to find a B&B, a guest house, hotel or anything that had a room, but with no luck at all. I think it was the local Whippet and Ferret Show and the people had come from miles around to show off their ferrets and whippets. I had a decent pint of Guinness in a not too decent pub and then called time on my search and went back to the canal. I then struck out for Gargrave. I understood that Gargrave didn't have much in the way of guest houses, hotels and the like but there is a camp site there. It was only about five miles but it seemed to take for ages as I plodded along at a much reduced pace because of my tired feet, legs and the blisters.
Eventually I started to reel my target in. I knew this camp site to be half decent having spent a night there while I was last walking The Pennine Way about ten years ago.
I remember how I'd arrived there from the north and was absolutely starving hungry and physically shattered 'cos I'd done too much hiking. I'd paid the pitch fee and had dropped all my baggage on the grass and spread my tent on the ground. (This wasn't the tent I was carrying now, this was a larger two-man tent with a separate ground sheet, inner lining, three 12 foot long articulated struts and then an outer lining.) It was then I realised that since the last time
I'd put it up (the previous night) I'd somehow forgotten how to do it! My brain cells just refused to talk to each other.
I then smelt cooking. A middle-aged couple in a tent a few yards away had a barbecue going. I wandered over and explained my predicament. How I'd forgotten how to erect my tent.
“Here lad, wrap thee chops 'round this.” And he handed me a sizzling hot-dog with onions and red sauce. “Would you care for a brew?” And he tossed me a can of lager.
I sat down on a crate and we talked for a while while I ate the hot-dog and drank the lager. After about half an hour I was back on song, thanked them for the dog and the beer and went and put the complex tent up inside 5 minutes.
Anyway, enough reminiscing, back to the present.
I reached the camp-site and it hadn't changed in ten years. I located the manageress and she too had hardly altered in the intervening years. I gladly handed over the £5 fee and found the exact same spot I'd erected that troublesome tent those ten long years ago. In no time at all I had my little simple one skin tent up and my belongings zipped up inside and I set off to have a shower etc. in the blockhouse set aside from the tents. I had a lovely hot shower, shaved. and went back to my tent. Another tent had been erected adjacent to mine and then a young man popped his head out and greeted me with a smile.
“You walkink ze canal?”
“Yes, I'm walking the canal. I've walked it from Goole on the east coast in Lincolnshire (it may be South Yorkshire but who's counting)
and I'm on my way to Liverpool.”
“Ah! Yes, Goole. I come myself from Lombardy in France. I walk al ze ways. I get off ship in Dover and I walk all ze way here. I am going Scotland.”
It transpired that this young Frenchman was walking to raise funds for the Hiroshima Charity that cares for victims past, present and future of that tragic bombing. He showed me his dog-eared Esso map that was held together with faith and tape. We talked in broken English and French for a while and then I suggested we go for a drink.
“I no drink. But you go.”
I changed into something comfortable, took my valuables with me in my camera case and asked a neighbouring camper if there was a pub in the village. I was informed that the pub was just down the hill into the village, about ten minutes walk. I thanked him and set off.
Five minutes later I had found the pub. It announced on the board outside BED AND BREAKFAST. I went into the pub and asked if they had a single room. They did! I took a look at the room, liked it, booked it and told them not to go away while I fetched my gear from the camp-site.
Well... I mean, it looked like rain, didn't it?
Day 5. 18th July 2010.
Gargrave to Nelson.
It did rain during the night. In fact the noise of it rattling on my window woke me up in the early hours but in my comfortable double bed I was soon away again. I knew breakfast would be served from 8:00 am and had decided to have a lazy lie in until 7:30. By 7:00 am I was up and ready for the day. I packed my bag, threw my other girly pink England shirt in the bin along with a pair of smelly socks and a hankie. All I had to do now was watch a bit of TV to catch up on the news and weather. The weather didn't look very good for today with rainy periods mixed with some brief sunny periods. But what the heck, I had my brolly so I should be OK.
Eight o'clock arrived and I went downstairs with my rucksack, brolly, camera-case and map and found a table made up for one. I ordered the full English breakfast and helped myself to cereals and fruit juice. A pot of tea appeared and I tucked in to my Cornflakes. The cooked breakfast arrived and it was massive! Far too much for one smallish Englishman but I did my best to wolf down two fried eggs, three rashers of bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans and sausages. The sausages I left 'til last and made “cold dogs” of them with slices of buttered toast. These I put into my Tupperware sandwich box for later.
I paid my bill and left the inn around 8:30. The latest morning start so far. It was drizzling with rain. A few minutes later I was back on the tow-path heading towards the town of Nelson and hopefully to some digs that I'd stayed in three years previously when walking these paths in the opposite direction. I couldn't ring ahead because I'd lost the name, address and number of the place. Which, as it turned out, was lucky for me. My blisters hadn't yet burst and were giving me a little gyp and so I promised myself that if they didn't burst by themselves I would drain them at my next port of call.
I hadn't gone far when I spotted another pub to my right that might
also have done B&B but that's how these things pan out.
From Gargrave to East Martin, the canal really twists and turns. It's almost twice as far by canal than it is by footpath over the fields. But knowing how the intervening hills are quite steep and full of ups and downs, I figured it would be better to stick to the level path of the canal. Just after the village is a point where the Pennine Way intersects the canal. The Pennine Way takes in this stretch of the canal as far as Gargrave where I'd just spent the night. I was now looking for a pub for a drink and a sit down. I very soon found what I was looking for.
The only fly in the ointment, so to speak, was that they didn't serve Guinness. Once bitten, twice shy, I refused to be conned into trying the guest stout that might be something akin to Farmers Jockstrap or Old Maids Piss, so I had a pint of Fosters lager, instead.
I was soon back on the trail and heading for Pendle Way. The Television mast loomed on a hill over to my left and is probably the one that I pick up my Yorkshire TV signal from back home in Mansfield. The rain was still pelting down but underneath my brolly I was quite dry. There are many bridges too, underneath which are places of shelter from the very worst of the rain. The only thing is is that cyclists belt through these bridges and one or the other of you could finish up in the canal. This never DID happen but it came very close.
The other strange thing I noticed on my walk was the fishing. Grown men women and boys would be sat there with a fishing pole about 30 feet long with a short length of line and a baited hook and float attached.
Now, forgive me my ignorance but the canal is barely 25 feet wide so the baited hook dangles just a foot or so from the opposite bank? So why don't these anglers get a three foot long rod and go and sit on the other side of the canal? It all seems strange to me. I suppose if they DID fish from the other bank with their 30 foot poles, the baited hook would still be a foot from the opposite bank from where they sit. Curiouser and curiouser?
By mid afternoon I'd reached Foulridge. This is where the mile tunnel starts and the canal tow-path stops for the same distance as the canal dives into the side of a hill below ground to emerge later. The last time I'd negotiated this ground I'd followed an old disused railway track that was overgrown with weeds. It had been like fighting ones way through the Borneo jungle but the weather had been kind. Today it was horrible weather and so this time I decided to take to the road.
I didn't have suitable maps for this but thought that a mile or so on well signposted English roads shouldn't be too difficult. I was wrong. Inside twenty minutes I was lost and disoriented. I came across a bus shelter and in order too get out of the rain and check my navigation I went inside and sat down. I ate one of my cold dogs and had a drink of water while I sat studying the map that I had got. The maps were from an old 5 miles to the inch road atlas and that's all I thought necessary for following a canal. I mean, how difficult can that be when the canal is clearly marked on the road map?
I wasn't sure exactly where I was so I took out my GPS (the type that is/was used by the American armed forces to locate downed aircrew in war zones) switched it on and I waved it at God. It took about ten minutes of waving and pointing it at the sky before God answered. He gave me an eight digit set of coordinates which I then had to transfer to my road map. With pen and a segmented ruler I fixed a point on the map which put me some three miles BACK beyond where I'd left the canal!? I thought it rather odd as I'd already taken a compass bearing at the tunnel entrance and so KNEW roughly the direction to head.
I checked the GPS again. I checked the coords I'd marked on the map....... and discovered I was wrong. Or at least I thought I was wrong. Then a bus came by and it had COLNE on its destination board. A quick check of my map shown me that Colne would do for me. I was on my way.
So I packed everything away, shouldered my pack and started walking in the direction the bus had gone. The road had been uphill ever since I'd left the the tow-path and it was still going uphill. I eventually reached a crossroads that was signposted Barrowford one way and Nelson (my ultimate destination for the day), the other. This confused me 'cos I knew I had to go through Barrowford to get to Nelson. Not only that but Nelson, according to the signpost, was back down the hill from whence I'd come. After much debate within myself, I decided to go to Barrowford. It turned out to be the proper choice 'cos a few minutes later I was in a pub and over a pint of Guinness I'd asked a few questions. Nelson was indeed joined on to Barrowford which was just about a mile downhill from where we were sitting. So I reckoned that I'd walked about twice as far as I should have done covering that missing mile of tow-path. Bugger!
My trial hadn't quite finished. In Barrowford I took a wrong road into Nelson. Oh, it was going to Nelson alright but it was a turn off from the motorway. I soon discovered this after walking it for about ten minutes.
“Oy! Asshole! Get off the f***ing motorway!!” came the shout from a passing car.
As soon as I realised my error I got behind the crash barrier. I dropped lucky, again. Behind the crash barrier I spotted a flight of concrete steps leading done the bank side. The steps were overgrown with bushes and brambles but they are as nothing to this intrepid idiot explorer. I crashed through the vegetation and after about forty concrete steps reached the bottom of the embankment.... to be faced with an eight foot steel fence. D'oh!
But lady luck was with me again. The fence had been vandalised. One of the steel railings had been forced at the bottom and although still connected at the top could now be easily moved aside. I took off my
pack and squeezed it through the gap. I followed suit and we were soon reunited. I shouldered my pack, dusted the leaves off my coat, shook my hat and put it back on. I then confidently strode across a large expanse of lorry park to where a dozen or so men wearing high visibility jackets where hosing down their trucks. I went up to one of them and asked:
“Excuse me, I'm looking for Nelson. Could you point me in the right direction, please?” And he did.
Safely in Nelson it took me just a few minutes to locate Victoria Street which I knew led down hill to the B&B I was seeking which lies just a few yards beyond the canal. This street, and all the parallel streets are made up of lines upon lines of stone terraced housing. The vast majority of which are occupied by Indian/Pakistani immigrants. It's like being in Calcutta. As I made my way down Victoria street I soon became aware that I was being regarded as a curiosity. OK, I had on camouflage jungle trousers, a Garfield T-Shirt, a big pack on my back, a white hat with MALTA emblazoned on the front and a brightly coloured furled up umbrella. So what was odd with that? I do know that I brought a lot of 'em away from their TV's, popadoms and curries to press their noses against the glass and take a look at this alien sight.
I arrived at The Lovett Guest House on Brady Street at about 6:00 pm. Knocked on the door and Lesley answered it.
“Hi, I'm walking the Liverpool Goole canal again and I wondered if I could stop here again like I did three years ago?”
After a few seconds it sunk in and she recognised me.
“Well,” she began. “As it happens ALL my rooms are free at the moment. I've been turning people away because I'm going away on holiday in a couple of days time but you are welcome to stay.”
And with that she invited me in. She asked if I'd like a cup of tea and a bit of something to eat and I said that that would be smashing. But first: “Would you mind if I put my stuff in the room and take a shower so's I could change into something cleaner and less smelly?”
Ten minutes later I was sat in her kitchen tucking into a bowl of stew (which, though it was lovely, I didn't pay full justice to 'cos I hadn't the energy to eat and digest) and a big mug of tea. We chatted and she remembered the last time I spent a night there because I'd had to ring her at 2:30 in the morning because a smoke alarm was beeping telling everyone around that the battery was low.
Why DO they pick the early hours of the morning to tell us the battery is low? Since that time she has had mains operated smoke alarms and emergency lighting fitted throughout at great expense. I also took this opportunity to ask her if I could stay TWO nights so's I could recuperate a little.
She readily agreed, saying, “Had you have rung me to ask for digs I'd most likely have turned you down same as the others. But now you're here you are welcome."
That night I tackled my troublesome and ballooning blisters. I sterilised a sewing needle (I carry darning and sewing equipment. Sad isn't it?) and after wrapping copious amounts of toilet tissue around my foot I struggled to pierce the bleb on my right big toe. I eventually managed it and there was a sudden fountain of clear liquid came spurting out soaking the tissue. I could feel the hurt subside almost straight away. After squeezing every last drop I could out of that blister, I re-sterilised the needle and tackled the other in the same fashion. I then applied some antiseptic gel on the deflated blisters, wrapped them in toilet tissue and put on a pair of clean socks. Job done I then made myself another cup of tea got comfortable and watched TV for a while before putting myself to bed. Tomorrow I will rest up.
Day 6. 19th July 2010. Nelson (Rest day).
I had a really good and relatively pain-free night in my comfortable bed. Interrupted, ironically, at 2:00 am by the sound of a beeping alarm. Not a smoke alarm this time but a genuine alarm clock beeping incessantly. I checked all over my room and could find nothing making any beeping. I had a phone, switched off, my camera, switched off, and my two watches issued no alarm beeps. The TV, radio and video player in my room were silent. I draped a bath-towel around my sore shoulders and ventured out onto the landing to listen. The sound volume had dropped a little and I could hear nothing coming from the room next-door, the floor below or the floor above. I went back inside my room and shut the door.
The beeping still continued. So, rather than go downstairs and knock on the door of Lesley's room at two in the morning, I switched on my phone and dialled her number. She soon answered it and in a sleepy voice whispered, “Hello.”
I explained that I couldn't get to sleep because some alarm was going off and could she investigate.
“Not the smoke alarm again?”
“No, this is a clock or something.”
She came upstairs in her nightie and dressing gown, all the time listening and trying to see where it might be coming from. She could find no trace of sound in any of the other empty guest rooms. Then she twigged.
“It sounds like it's coming from next-door. I'll give her a ring.”
I heard her talking on the phone and then footsteps bounding up the stairs next-door. The sound of a door being flung open and then silence........ the alarm was silenced. Apparently, the occupier of that room had his alarm set to wake him for his night shift and he hadn't yet come home from a night out. Bugger!
I dropped off back to sleep knowing that at least I didn't have to get up early in the morning and do another twenty mile hike. In fact a 9:00 AM breakfast was on the cards followed by a relaxing day wandering around the town, doing a bit of shopping (socks especially), having lunch in a pub, watching a bit of TV and then going to bed early. All of which I did, after settling my account and having Lesley prepare me a take-away lunch in lieu of another cooked breakfast.
Day 7. 20th July 2010.
Nelson to Blackburn.
After another great and comfortable night sleeping I was up at the rack of 5:30 AM. I made myself a pot of tea and drank a couple of cups while I sorted my bag and bagged up a couple of bits of clothing for dumping. I ate an energy biscuit so's I could take my daily pills and then made my way downstairs with my brolly, camera-case and map to fetch my packed lunch which now had to be stowed away in my rucksack. That done I carried my rucksack downstairs, opened the front-door and in doing so disturbed the wind-chimes that hang in the hallway. In the quiet of the morning it sounded like a full orchestra was tuning up. I managed to steady it a bit and let myself out of the house and onto the street. A couple of minutes walking and I was back on the canal heading towards Blackburn and Liverpool.
The morning was dull and drizzly with proper rain imminent but I was well refreshed and had a bounce back in my step. I took a number of
pictures of the pretty bridges and even did a bit of wildlife photography. I'd pulled up for a sit down and a drink when I noticed a mother duck with her brood of ducklings just a few feet away. They were oblivious to me and I watched as she tenderly gathered them to her. It was some minutes before the serenity was abruptly brought to an end by a dog that rushed the brood and they darted for the safety of the canal. I say “serenity” but that's if one can bring oneself to ignore the background hum of the heavy traffic on the motorway that runs for most of the way alongside the canal. Bummer!
The rain began falling incessantly and my brolly was put to good use again. What with the rain and the noise from the motorway, it was hardly tranquillity personified. But it shouldn't last. It wouldn't last. I'd walked through the large town of Burnley without even noticing a change, apart from the increase in the volume of litter in the hedge-bottoms and the increased frequency of vandalism and graffiti.
Clear of Burnley I was now looking for somewhere to rest up and take lunch. The rain had now ceased and I eventually found a nice bench to sit on and tackle some of my prepacked lunch. Lesley had been very generous with the food she'd packed for me. In fact it was to last me the best part of two days. After eating and while the sun shone a little and with boots off I had one of my power naps. I'd advise this sort of rest period for anyone out on a long walk. Not TOO long a nap, mind. Just ten or twenty minutes is ample.
After recharging my cells I pressed on towards my goal. My goal today is the home of a friend that my wife and I first met along with her husband some time ago in the late eighties early nineties. We were in Malta staying at The Golden Sands Hotel when we chanced to meet. We got on fine and we taught Joan and Alec (her now late husband) how to play ten card brag, race snails (which are quite easy to beat), and play “silly buggers” at dominoes. I even had a go at teaching Alec to swim. He was in his sixties then and had never learned how to and admitted to feeling a little left out of it when it came to having fun in the pool. When later back in UK, Alec took proper swimming lessons, determined to make it as a swimmer.
I'd previously spent a couple or three days at Joan's house after Alec had passed away. It was during me epic walk from Thurso in Scotland to Lands End in England (via John o'Groats.) After that, she had spent a few days in our humble abode in Mansfield and visited a few places of historical interest around our town, it included a concert held in Southwell Minster Cathedral.
We had been exchanging Christmas cards and snippets of news ever since. I didn't have her number (I'd lost a whole bunch of 'em that had been stored on a land-line phone that had succeeded in losing them) so I
couldn't ring ahead but I did know where the bungalow was situated and knew I could find it again. I hoped I'd be welcomed but didn't take anything for granted.
A couple of pub calls later and I was on the outskirts of Blackburn and on the lookout for bridge number 101. I found bridge number 104A and thought to myself that it couldn't be far, now. Then I came across bridge number 104AA after that it was something like bridge number 104B, 104AB and eventually 104. Then 103AA, 103A, 103B etc. etc., and through the 103s, the 102s, the 101s until eventually (very eventually) I found bridge number 101. I left the canal and followed my jotted down instructions. It must have been a good hour before I eventually turned up on the doorstep of Joan's neat little bungalow.
I knocked gently first and then rang the bell. She came to the door and opened it carefully.
“Hi, Joan. It's me.., Tony.”
I do believe she recognised the Malta hat before she did me. And then she remembered. Before I knew it it was hugs and come on in.... I'll put the kettle on. I put my bag somewhere out of the rain, removed my wet boots and followed her through to her lounge.
The lounge wasn't as I remembered it but she soon filled me in on the reason why over a cup of tea. Her fifty-one year old son was in the one bedroom and she was caring for him because he is battling cancer that has invaded every part of his body. I hadn't realised that she was so fixed. The lounge we were in had now been turned into a sort of bed-sit for Joan, so there was obviously no room at the inn for drop in travellers. We talked for a while and then she suggested that her friend, Dave, across the way might have a spare bed.
Within a couple of minutes she'd nipped across the road, had a word with Dave and come back. Yes, Dave could put me up for the one
night 'cos his son was out of town. I could even have use of the facilities if I so desired and a breakfast in the morning. Dave was off out for an hour or so but would be back to take me across. Joan and I chatted while he was gone, reminiscing about our first meeting and the antics on holiday. About my previous stay with her, about Alec and about her stay with us in Mansfield and about her son's illness. I asked what time she would be up in the morning so's I could pop back over and say goodbye and she assured me that she would be up and about at five so there was no danger of me missing her or disturbing her sleep.
True to his word, an hour later Dave had returned to take me across to be introduced to my room for the night. It was a typical teenagers room. Full of gadgets and gizmos and trendy clothes in profusion. But it was a bed. There was also a bathroom directly across the landing. Dave left me to get bathed and changed and told me I was welcome to come downstairs when ready for a cup of tea.
Over tea, Dave filled me in on his job and the jobs of his sons. Quite interesting but will stay personal and classified. Round about 10:00 it was time for me to make my way upstairs to bed. I took leave and said my goodnight with breakfast arranged for 7:00 am.
Day 8. 21st July 2010. Blackburn to Adlington.
After a decent night's sleep, broken only by the torrential rain overflowing the roof guttering and causing a torrent of the wet stuff to cascade down the window causing a bit of a racket, I was awake, washed and dressed by 7:00 and sat at the table in the living room tucking in to a bowl of Cornflakes and a cup of tea. Dave wouldn't accept any sort of payment for the room but suggested that I might donate it to a charity of my choice, instead. I agreed and my £20 note stayed in my wallet.
It was still raining when I said goodbye to Dave and headed across the road to say my cheerios to Joan as well. The front door was already open before I got there and after a hug and an open invitation to Joan to bring along a friend and come over to spend a few days with us in Mansfield, I left to find my way back to the canal.
It didn't take me long to rejoin the tow-path and I was soon heading roughly west again with my target for today being Adlington. The rain had eased a little now, the brolly was furled and used as my walking stick. I have always walked with a stick as my companion, even when young and fit. However, a walking stick doesn't keep much rain off so the brolly is a great compromise. It's also useful in keeping yappy-snappy dogs from biting my ankles. (NOTE: No animals were hurt in the making of this trek.) I passed a flight of locks, still ascending, and plodded on towards my target for the day which was Joan 2. (I'm calling her that 'cos Joan IS her name and I don't wish to confuse Joan 2 with the first Joan.)
Any-road-up, Joan 2 we also met while on holiday. This time it was on the island of Cyprus. My wife and I had taken a winter break on this Mediterranean island about twenty years ago to get away from the winter weather in UK. The daytime temperatures on the island at that time of year were better than here in England during our brief summer. It's much sunnier, too. But at night the temperature on
that small island drops dramatically and it was this that brought Joan 2 and her husband Bert into our field of friends.
My wife and I had found a pub in Limassol called The London and made ourselves comfortable beside the blazing coal and log fire. There were few people in the pub but we warmed to each other, played darts and chatted. Joan 2 and Bert came into the pub and sat a few tables away. It was then that the owner of the pub brought forth a basket of potatoes and invited us to roast them on the fire. He's also provided us with a pot of butter, knives and a salt pot. We soon had the pub smelling of roast potato and they were delicious. We invited Joan and Bert to come and join us, which they did. They enjoyed the “potato barbecue” too and our friendship was born.
Back in England we exchanged house visits for extended weekend breaks and I even stayed at Joan 2's bungalow as I had done Joan 1's during my walk down the whole length of UK. Sadly, Bert passed away a few years ago. He'd served in WWII and had been a captured by the Japanese, imprisoned in Singapore and badly treated. Forced to work on building roads and bridges he'd lost an arm and had to have a false arm fitted with tool adapters. He was one great guy and I loved his humorous take on life. We were both in the building trade so much of the humour was based an familiar experiences. Anyway, that was my target. If indeed I wasn't; “welcome at the inn”, I could always look for digs in Adlington.
I was now approaching the highest point on the canals at Wheelton. But before we get there there's a series of locks that take the canal up to it's zenith and then, after a brief stretch of path we reach the highest locks and it's all down hill from here to Liverpool. Top Lock Hotel is situated here and the last time I came through I had a glorious meal. But this time I was a bit too early - 11:45 – and wasn't in the least bit hungry as I was still finishing off yesterdays packed lunch that Lesley had made up for me. But I did have room for a Guinness and the rest certainly did me good.
Refreshed, I set off once more. I trudge away for mile after mile and hour after hour with a Guinness break at any pub within easy reach of the canal. It's quite surprising how much Guinness a body can take when walking hard, without getting in the least bit tipsy. If I had three pints in a row in a pub back home I'd be anybody's. Or nobody's, depending on the mood. Around 4:00 in the afternoon I'm approaching Adlington. I'm on the lookout for the bridge crossing the canal that carries the A6 road.
This is the road that I followed most of the way from the Scottish border during my 1993 John o'Groats/Land's End walk and I knew it to be the best way to Joan 2's home. I eventually found it and took it to Joan's. But on the way I couldn't resist calling in at a pub that Bert had introduced me to many years ago and having a drink in his memory. Five minutes after leaving the pub I was knocking on Joan's door.
“Hello, Joan. It's me..., Tony from Mansfield.” My Malta hat did some of the talking for me on this occasion, too.
A brief flicker of bewilderment and then it was hugs and kisses all round and an invite in to her neat bungalow. Over a cup of tea we chatted about this and that. Reminisced a bit about past events and the passing of Bert. I broached the subject of staying the night and was immediately welcomed to stay in the spare room that I had stayed before both alone and with my wife, too, on another occasion. I helped her make up the bed and soon I had ensconced myself, shaved, showered and dressed in my cleanest, least smelly clothes.
Joan had even prepared us a dinner, which was excellent, washed down with a bottle of wine which was beautiful. After eating we retired to the lounge to watch bit of TV and to chat. We chatted until it was quite late, or at least later than I'd got used to, and then I retired to bed... happy and contented to rest my weary body and prepare for another day.
Day 9. 22nd July 2010. Adlington to Burscough.
I had a really great night's sleep. The evening meal, the sweet of pancakes and home-made strawberry jam followed by the wine really did the business. I'd gone out like a light. Making jams and preservatives is something that Joan excels at. She was telling me how she makes such stuff to sell at the Church Bazaar to raise funds for various charities and for the church itself. Which gave me an idea. Joan had refused to take a penny from me for my stay so I decided that this was the charity call that Dave had hinted at the day before. So I took out my £20 note and fastened it to a bottle of spring water that Joan had provided me with and presented it to her over breakfast saying it was for church funds or anything else she might find a use for it. She accepted it graciously.
After breakfast it was time for me to say my goodbyes. I hugged and kissed her on the doorstep (not on the lips, on the doorstep) and invited her and a friend to come over to our place for a break, any time she wanted. I looked back and waved as I made my way back to the canal. Very soon I was back on the tow-path and heading for Wigan. I planned to do a bit of shopping in that town 'cos most of my shirts were getting a little high. I would be after replacing a couple of 'em with new second hand ones bought in charity shops. It's what I do. I had also thought about replacing some of my under-crackers with second hand jockey shorts but had backed out of this on the grounds that I'm not THAT intrepid that I would stoop to wearing second hand underwear.
The first milestone I encountered announced Liverpool to be 44 miles away. I'd be happy today if I could knock off twenty of 'em. It was with this in mind that I decided to take a change from the canal path and venture into the woods of Haigh Country park. The cyclist and walkers route is plainly signposted to Wigan so I thought it would be a great diversion. I was proved correct. The woods down this way are beautiful and so very quiet. I stopped halfway and had a picnic
with whatever I'd got left in my lunch box, which wasn't much. A bruised apple, a small satsuma and an energy biscuit. But it was food. While I'm sat there and taking in the beauty of my surroundings I caught the sound of singing echoing through the forest.
“We love to go a wandering along the mountain track and
as we go we love to sing, our knapsacks on our backs.."
It sounded so lovely. And then I saw them coming up the hill in a sort of crocodile file. About twenty young school kids with day-packs strapped on and a couple of teachers in charge, singing at the top of their voices. They streamed past where I was sitting and disappeared around the bend, still singing lustily, ”.. Faleri falera faleri falera ha ha ha ha ha ha, our knapsacks on our backs.”Beautiful.
The road through the woods was quite winding and up-and-downy. None-the-less I enjoyed the change from the level evenness of the canal tow-path. The narrow lane then broadened out into a wider avenue and soon I was approaching a large set of iron ornamental gates which were obviously the main entrance into the park. Out of the gates I asked a passer-by which way Wigan lay and followed the road into town which was about half a mile to a mile away. Not yet into the town centre I came across a charity shop.
I took off my pack and propped it to one side safely in the knowledge that no one would want to by such a sorry load of junk. I found the men's shirt rail and sorted through it by size. I was looking for large or even extra large and found a tan one that suited. £1.50 was the asking price so I had that one. Then I spotted a pale blue one that had L for large on it's hanger and this one was only £1 so I had that one as well. I paid over my £2.50 and left the shop.
Further on I found a nice cafe, took advantage of the situation and made myself comfortable in a comfy chair with a pot of tea and a double egg toasty at hand. Pack off, boots off, I sat there gently steaming and probably stinking to high heaven. I vowed that as soon as I was away on the canal I would change into one of my clean crisp shirts and ditch the one I had on. That would come later. Meanwhile I enjoyed the relaxation and my tea, so tasty when one is really in
need of one.
A good half hour later I was back on my way into Wigan. I wanted to find the famed Wigan Pier which now has a museum dedicated to it. Eventually I found it but the museum was closed. In fact it looked as if it had been closed for some considerable time. But I did locate the pier itself, though it's nothing to write home about. I carried on to the tow-path and strode out in the direction of Liverpool looking for a decent and private bench where I could change my shirt. After about a mile I came across a lock with a suitable bench and after dropping my back-pack I took off the offensive shirt. I removed the £1 blue shirt from its plastic bag, saving the tan one for best, and put it on. Bugger!!! This was no LARGE shirt! This was a SMALL sized shirt! It said so in SMALL letters! I could hardly fasten the damn thing and my moobs were trying to burst through the bloody material and past the buttons! Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!
I decided to keep that shirt on and also not to throw away the smelly one, just in case. I slung my pack back on, picked up my camera case, brolly and map and pressed on in a sort of blue funk. Maybe this would teach me not to go shopping without my missus in tow. I plodded along for a couple more hours and then decided I needed refreshing again. I left the canal at the very next bridge and found a pub just a few yards away. In fact, it wasn't so much a pub as a posh restaurant. The Baby Elephant. No Guinness this time but a pint of lager was almost as good. It was a nice sit down in a comfortable chair that was really required, and this place has it in
spades.
Whilst sat there, the boss of the place came over to talk to me. He was of Pakistani origin but spoke perfect English. We chatted about what I was doing, what he was doing and life in general. Quite an interesting conversationalist and very knowledgeable. We talked of the imbalance of standards in India and Pakistan where there are many who are starving and dying while the countries have more than
their fair share of millionaires and billionaires. He told me that if/when he goes back home with a few thousand English pounds on him, he himself is treated like a millionaire. Money opens many doors on the Asian sub-continent.
My glass empty, I said my cheerio and made my way out of the door and back onto the canal. I was starting to weary a little and now on the lookout for B&B. An hour or so's walking later I'd found another pub where I asked if they did B&B but was told they didn't, and neither could they help me with anywhere local. I supped my Guinness slowly and eventually made my way out of the door and back onto the path.
I'd passed Appley Bridge and Parbold and still hadn't seen any sign of digs, nor even a decent place to camp. The only thing in my favour was the weather that had brightened. A mile or two more of trudge and I came across some neat cottages that formed a line along the tow-path. Very neat and pretty they looked, too. I noticed that one of 'em had one of those doors that open in two. The bottom half was closed and the top half open. There was a guy in there reading his paper or watching TV so I approached and tapped on the door. He looked up, put down his paper and came to the door.
“Excuse me,” I began. “You don't happen to know if anyone around her does B&B, do you?”
“Well... no. There's nobody I know of in these cottages that do take guests.”
“I'm not looking for anything posh, just a roof and a bed...,” I added.
“Well, there is a place.....,” and he came out onto the tow-path. “See those buildings over there?”
I looked the way he was pointing. The buildings appeared to be a
good half mile AWAY from the canal. “They do B&B and may have room available.”I took a sharp intake of breath and came out with, “It seems a bit of a hike, and if they don't have room it's a bit of a hike back.”
“That's no problem,” he said. “Jump in the car and I'll drive you over.”And with that, he took me round to the back of the cottages to where his big black Mercedes was parked up. He backed the car out onto the road and put my back-pack in the back. I got in the front and he drove me down the lanes to the B&B. He stopped the car outside the B&B and told me leave my bag in the car and to go see if they had a room. If they didn't have a room, he said, we'd try something else. They did have a room. I came back to the car with both thumbs raised, took out my bag and thanked him profusely.
“That's OK,“ he said. And drove away in a burst of tyres and gravel.
Charlotte Riley's Heskin Farm (Google it) proved to be one of the best B&B's I've ever stayed in. She gave me her son's room 'cos he was away. Double bed, black silky sheets, plenty of towels, large colour TV and a bathroom just across the landing with a proper bath. They were even working on adding in a new shower to that bathroom even as they showed me round. In fact the guy who was doing the alteration was still there with drills and hammers and the rest of it. He promised to pack up work for the day so's I could make use of the bathroom. Me being an ex wall and floor tiler I could always appreciate any excuse to stop working. 15 minutes later I was stripped naked, clothed in a bath robe and in the bathroom. I thought to myself... “He's not done a very good job of putting his tools away and tidying up.” So I moved them all to one end of the bathroom while the bath was being filled with hot and cold water. I then removed my robe and stepped into the bath.
A couple of minutes later there came a knock on the door.“Excuse me, can I get my tools?” I stepped out of the bath and opened the door in my dressing gown. “Geez, you're quick. I hadn't even tidied up, yet,” he said, when he realised I was having a bath.
“That's OK,” I said. “I've tidied up for you, and a few tools and a bit of muck don't bother me.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “If you're happy that's OK.” And he left so I finished my bath.
That evening, after I'd bathed, shaved and put on my £1.50 shirt and my spare pants, I asked Charlotte if there was anywhere that did food in the village. She advised me that “The Vines” did good grub but that if I ordered the fish and chips to only have the small portion as the large one was too big.
How right she was. I ordered the small portion of fish, chips and mushy peas priced at a reasonable £5.25 and there would still have been more than enough for me and my missus. Incidentally, on leaving the pub after eating and drinking, I had THE most frightening experience of the trip so far. I'd left the pub and had walked about 100 yards down the road towards my digs when I checked my pockets. I patted all six of my combat trousers pockets and couldn't find my wallet. My wallet contained everything I needed to continue the walk and to get back home. About £150 in cash, my credit and debit cards and my bus-pass! I hared off back to the pub, fearing the worst. Maybe I'd been pick-pocketed? Back inside the pub I went to the table where I'd been sat. My wallet was on the floor beneath my seat. Phewwwww!!!
Day 10. 23rd July 2010. Burscough to Liverpool (or close).
Breakfast was served from 7:00 am. And a smashing breakfast it was, too. Eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, fried bread, toast, cereals, fruit juice and a pot of tea. That lot and the room including a hot bath cost me just £22.25 and was well worth it. Breakfast over I left Charlotte with my full name and asked that she Google it. I suggested that in doing so she would find out more about me than I knew about myself. I left and made my way back to the canal.
Because of the lie of the land and the twisting nature of the canal, the B&B was in easy reach of the canal, just down a farm track and I was there 5 minutes later to begin walking the last 24 miles to Liverpool. I didn't intend going ALL the way into Liverpool because it would be too late to take public transport back home to Mansfield. My intentions were to get within about an hour or two walking distance and camp for the night and probably ditch my unsatisfactory tent and my bed-roll. However, circumstances always manage to change things.
I hadn't walked a quarter mile before I spotted a B&B sign at the side of the tow-path amongst the trees. Bugger! Isn't that always the case? When I want a B&B I can't find one and when I don't want a B&B the buggers are growing on trees! It's just the same with pubs. I find some beautiful pubs when I don't need one and I also find great pubs when they are shut and I DO need one. Anyway, I pressed on. The weather is decent too, today. The sun has its hat on, the sky is cloudy in places and it's dry and warm. My waterproof is stowed away for now and I feel invigorated by my good sleep and that wholesome breakfast. All is well with the world and I am making easy weather of the walk.
Around noon I'm on the look-out for a pub that's open. What did I tell you? I found TWO decent looking pubs but neither of 'em were open. The signs on the doors declared that they would be opening at
4:00 pm and 7:00 pm respectively. So I choose a trestle table picnic in the garden of the second one, making do with water and a fruit and nut bar from my lunch-box rations. It had started to drizzle a little, too. So out came the waterproof coat again. But at least it allowed me to warm up a little. After half an hour I loaded up and set off along the path again.
Later along the walk, I came across an interesting display depicting the cutting of the canals and the design and build etc. It looked bloody hard and slavish work, much of it carried out with imported labour though some work was carried out by local craftsmen such as carpenters, stonemasons and bricklayers. It must have taken a hell of a lot of planning and lots of financing to take the canal all the way between Liverpool and Leeds. Incidentally, the canal engineers and builders started at both ends of the canal route and even some places – locks, some bridges etc. along the way, were constructed BEFORE the canal was dug.
It must have been about three in the afternoon before I finally got my feet under a table and a pint of Guinness at my elbow. Slumped into an old armchair with my boots off and smelling a bit sweeter in my newish too small for me shirt, I almost dozed off. I feel I may have too, because my Guinness had lost most of its head when I opened my eyes. I don't think anyone noticed... mostly 'cos there was nobody else in. I had the whole of the lounge bar to myself. It's little wonder that many of our once busy and bright pubs a having to close down. Quite a lot are finding the ever increasing costs of rents, taxes, electric, heating and booze etc. is too much. PLUS the smoking ban. PLUS the cheap booze that supermarkets flood the market with I mean, I can buy about six one pint cans of Guinness (or any other brew) in a supermarket for the price of one pint of the same stuff in a pub. How can they compete with that? The government MUST step in and alter this situation or the UK will lose a fine institution that is recognised the world over.
Once more on the tow-path I was now on the search for somewhere half decent where I could camp. I had thought I'd be able to find the pub where I'd camped in the garden before, but I never did locate it. Maybe it had been bulldozed to make way for the housing estates that were now springing up on both side of this area of the canal. The estates, and the people who live in them, were now making me rethink the idea about camping the night. It's also the school summer holidays and the canal is one of the main attractions for the kids of the area to come and play or throw things at the ducks. Usually empty cans of bottles, but sometimes car tyres, old bikes and shopping carts. At least that's what it looked like to me. The closer I got to Liverpool, the more crap I saw in the water.
Round about 4:30 I began looking for somewhere to lodge. I visited one pub and asked the usual questions but no luck. At the next bridge I noticed as I approached it that - hidden in the undergrowth but noticeable to my shit-house rat eyesight – a grey plastic box. I pulled it out of the grass and weeds and on examination it proved to be a decent hammer-drill. I immediately reckoned it to have been the result of theft and been stashed here to be retrieved at a later date. I hate crime and I detest all criminality and had no intention of leaving this to the thieves. So I picked it up, got off at the bridge, and carried it into a nearby pub. I asked for the landlord/manager but he was out. I explained the find to the barman and asked if he could relate my story to the gaffer when he came back. Meanwhile; “Do you do B&B here? And to the answer to that one.., “Do you know anyone in this area that might?”
Somebody suggested a place that was two miles back the way I'd come. In answer to my protesting feet she added; “But you could catch the number 23 bus and it'll drop you off at the place.”
I declined. I don't fancy using strange local bus services. I had a drink and a rest and then pressed on.
A couple of bridges later I came off again and walked to a pub that was close by. Making my way up to the bar, I eased my way to the front past a guy who was standing with drink in his hand, and asked the usual questions. “Do you do.. do you know anyone who...etc. etc?”
“I can give you a room,” said the guy to my left with pint in hand. I turned to face him. He looked about my age, red of face, glassy of eye and obviously pissed and unsteady on his feet.
“I've got a spare.. hic! R... room... hot and cold TV... hic! Help yourself to bathroom...hot and cold..,”
I looked him up and down. Is this guy serious?“Come...come outside and I'll..hic! show you. Everybody knows me..., everybody.”
I followed him outside and he pointed across the intervening five lane road and motley houses at a monstrously high (high for a man from Mansfield where four storeys make our noses bleed.)
“That's where... hic! I live. Fifth floor.... everybody knows me.”I asked him, “When?”
“Just as soo... soooon as I've hic!.. finished this. Ev... everybody knows me...”
I agreed to wait 'til he had finished his drink I took my pack off and ordered a drink for myself.
“I'll get that, I'm Terry. Everybody knows me.”
I told him thanks, but no, I'd get my own drink.
“Plea.... please yourself. You'll be alright ya know.... hic! Everybody knows me.”
And he was right. Everybody knew Terry, as he was to explain to me later back in his apartment. He used to own this pub, and plenty of other properties in the area, until drink took hold on him and he lost just about everything, including his wife, his kids, his money and much of his dignity. Anyway, I'm jumping the gun a bit.
Terry leaned over me, he'd finished his pint and told me he was just going to fetch his bike from round the back.
“D....... don't go away, I'll be ba... ba--ack in a minute. Everybody knows me.”
I finished my pint and stood up to strap on my pack, pick up my things and go out the door. I had a fleeting moment where I thought it might be best if I scarpered back to the canal and found some other place. But I didn't. Partly because Terry was back with his bike.
“Come on, it's not f--faaar.... about five minutes...hic!”
I started to walk to a pedestrian crossing a few yards down the road but Terry had other ideas.
“We cross... bahf... here.”
And with that he launched himself and the bike across five lanes of busy traffic with me in close proximity. How the hell we managed to dodge all the two way traffic I don't know, but we did. “Everybody knows me,” said Terry. Just a few minutes later we were at the gates of this gated tower block.
“This place is ever so secure,” Terry assured me. “We all have to carry one of these plastic keys to get in.” He swiped the plastic electronic
tag against the gate lock and it swung open on silent hinges.“Do you play ch...... chess?” I said I didn't, and thought..neither would he in that state.
The gate clanged shut behind us. Next it was the heavy fire door into the building – swipe – swing – in. This was a door that put us inside what can best be described as an airlock. The door out of the airlock can only be opened when the other outer door is locked. Swipe – swing – in. All the time he's got his bike with him. At the lifts it's OK. Press summon button – enter – press floor button – go. We arrive at floor 5 and walk into a corridor. Terry says excuse me while he puts his bike on a small balcony so it's undercover but outside. He then takes me a few doors down the corridor to his own door and – swipe – push – we are in.
The condition of the apartment is what one would expect of a single man, a sad single alcoholic man. Untidy isn't the word.... VERY untidy are the words. But it is Terry's home and respect it as such. He showed me my bed and bedroom for the night. Pointed out his own, Showed me the bathroom and around his living room and even the kitchen. He took me over to the doors that led onto the balcony with a beautiful view across this part of the city. He pointed out the pub we'd just left, too. Over in the distance was another equally tall tower block. “My wife lives there... hic!” said Terry.
“Is that what these binoculars are for?” I asked, pointing to a powerful looking set, “to keep an eye on the missus?”
“No,” he said. “She's in Port.... Portugal on holiday.”
I asked if he'd mind if I had a bath and changed into something a little cleaner. He assured me that that would be OK. “There's plenty of hot water, towels, ssss....... soap. Everything. Help yourself”
So I went to my bedroom, stripped to my underpants, draped my own towel around my bruised shoulders and went to the bathroom. I
couldn't decide which tide-mark to fill the bath up to so cleaned them all off before putting my water in. I have news for Terry. Cold it has, warm it has, hot it doesn't have. I managed a shave while the cool water was running into the bath. I always feel refreshed after a wet shave. I bathed and dried myself on my own towel, rather than use one of Terry's. Dried off and changed I rejoined Terry in the living room. He was watching TV.“Would you like a cup of tea, Tony?” he asked, adding. “I've got no sugar.”
I declined the tea and settled for a mug of water, instead.
Over the mug of water, Terry filled me in on some of his life. He'd been quite the successful businessman. Happy marriage with kids who were now grown up. He told me how he used to run the pub across the way and how he's owned quite a property empire. All that had gone when he started drinking too much too often. There was a chess table laid out on the coffee table, I'd noticed it when I'd first entered the flat. Not a plain and simple boxwood Staunton set but one made up of gaudy coloured figures of royal households. I idly moved white queen's pawn up two squares. Terry soon became fixed on the board.
“Good move. Classic opening. I thought you said you didn't play?”
“I don't, much. Just with the grand-kids.”“I like the game. I sometimes take time to teach the local kids and my nephews and nieces how to play. They love it. It's OK, everybody knows me.”
He was a bit more focussed now and made his move. A few moves later and I realised that some of the pieces had been set up wrongly and asked Terry if I could adjust them. He agreed, saying it was probably the kids. The one sided game proceeded for about ten
minutes and then I managed to checkmate him.
“Good game, good game. D'yer fancy a game of dominoes?”
He brought out the set of ivory/bone and brass dominoes that numbered up to double nine! I'd never seen the likes before. We didn't play but I did admire them. We watched a bit more television and then he suggested that he might go back across to the pub for the last one. I declined his invitation to join him saying I was much too tired and would be putting myself in bed, soon. It was the truth. OK, he said. I'll just have the one and I'll be back.
And with that he left me on my own in his apartment. There were valuables everywhere. Money, jewellery, watches, cameras, TVs, Radios, DVD, CD, a space-age music centre that looked deadly and all sorts of other stuff. My eyes had been drawn to a painting hanging on his wall. I'd never seen the likes of it (though I do live a sheltered life) and couldn't resist taking a picture of it. I also took a picture of the pub from the balcony.
It was time for bed. I was just about to get into it when Terry came back.
“What time do you usually get up in a morning, Terry?”
“Any....... any time. You can get up whe... when hic! ......you feel like it. I'll be here. Everybody knows me.”
I had noticed that there was neither bolt nor lock on my bedroom door and although I might be intrepid, I'm not THAT bloody intrepid. I took my umbrella and jammed it under the handle with the other end on the floor.
Day 11. 24th July 2010. Liverpool and Home.
I was awake and up at 5:30 am. I could hear Terry moving about so knew it would be OK for me to get up and do a bit of moving about myself. As this was my last day, and with just a short two to three mile walk into Liverpool to find the other end of the canal, I had decided to wear my very cleanest clothes that included my Oxfam Shop £1.50 tan shirt and my tan combat trousers. With my tan socks and my tan boots and my own sun-tan I was quite colour coordinated. I brushed my teeth in the bathroom and refilled my water bottle. I planned on not having any breakfast as I could get a really good one in Liverpool at one of the many cafes.
I packed everything into my pack but left out my tent and bedroll. Terry had said that he didn't want any money from me and so I asked if I could leave the tent and bedroll behind for his young nephews and nieces to get some fun out of and he agreed. He asked if I wanted any breakfast but I told him I didn't and explained my plans for the day. I did however have a glass of fruit juice to get me started.
Soon it was time for me to take my leave. I shook Terry by the hand and thanked him for looking after me and then let myself out the door to find my way back through the maze of passages, door, lifts and gates to the outside world. The security keys were only for getting INTO the place and none was needed for getting OUT.
I soon made my way out onto the street and I heard this voice calling. I looked up in the direction of the voice hailing me to see Terry on his balcony waving me goodbye. I stopped to take a photo or two and then carried on across the road to the pub where I took a few more. The pub was all boarded up to keep out the vandals. Terry was still out on his balcony and watched 'til I was almost out of sight. I gave one last wave and was on the tow-path and heading on the last couple of miles or so to the end in Liverpool.
It was a nice sunny morning and without the tent and bedroll weighing me down I made good time.. I did notice that from here on in there was more litter and junk in the canal than I'd seen for most of the way. But Liverpool IS a big sprawling metropolis and one has to accept that they have more than their fair share of arseholes to the square mile than most places. Each pace brought me nearer to my goal and about forty minutes walking brought me to the first rail bridge on the canal and then to the first road bridge.
What I did discover on this visit, was that they had spent a lot of time, money and effort into cleaning up and repairing the last flight of locks that take the waters down to join the Mersey and subsequently the Irish Sea. Boats, once more, can now get all the way across England from the Irish Sea to the North Sea without leaving the water.
I followed the series of locks all the way down until I could go no further. I made my way out onto the road that should take me into the city where I would have to get public transport to take me home. But first I wanted breakfast so's I could take my medication. It was almost seven o'clock when I spotted what I was looking for. A small but neat cafe and it was just opening up for the day. I ordered my usual double egg toasty and a mug of tea (£2.50) plus a glass of water and took a seat by the window. It was a change not to be weary. I felt more like your average tourist than someone who'd just walked 170 across the country.
After I'd eaten, it was time for me to press on and find the bus station. As I neared the city centre I stopped a guy and asked where I might find the bus station.“Bus station, wack? Bus station? Which bus station? We have about half a dozen!”
I explained that I wanted a bus to Manchester and he said:-
“Manchester? Yul need the Norton Road bus station then, wack!”And he gave me quite complicated directions that would take me to Norton Road bus station, or, knowing my sense of direction, Glasgow. After walking about a mile up hill, I eventually found Norton Road bus station. I'd had to ask a few more passers by before I had made it. But I was in for disappointment. The only buses I could see were National Express coaches and my bus-pass isn't 100% negotiable on these coaches. So I went into the booking office and asked if indeed the rules had been changed and if there was any concession for bus-pass holders and she told me there was.... but only a little. So I asked her if she could tell me where the local bus station was and she kindly gave me directions that took me over half a mile and just so happened to take me past New Street Railway station.
I found the local bus station and asked a driver which of the many numbered stands the Manchester bus went from. He looked at me as if I was an alien and told me that the Manchester bus didn't operate from here. I'd have to go to Norton Road!?!?
I thought bugger it and went instead into the railway station and booked a train to Nottingham and paid top dollar. Well, I was getting a bit pissed off wasn't I. Inside 15 minutes I was sat in relative luxury with my pack stowed in the case rack. The train would take me through Manchester, Sheffield, Chesterfield, Alfreton and on to Nottingham where I could catch a bus to Mansfield. It wasn't until I reached Sheffield that I realised that I could get off the train at Chesterfield, the next stop, and catch a bus from there.
D'oh! I could have saved myself a few quid.
It would have been about two o'clock in the afternoon when I walked through my own gate and entered my own front door to be greeted by my own wife in our own kitchen.
“Get the kettle on love, I'm parched.”
"Have you shut the gate?" she asks.
The End.
