I was imminently due to cross the dreaded Ribble Link.
My cunning plan to achieve this, because there was no way my little boat with her single cylinder Sabb engine had the power to cross within the tight tidal frame, was this;
my previous rescuers, Tony and Margaret on NB Huffler had proved extremely calm and competent helping me the last time I broke down. They were also due to cross the link at the same time. All I had to do was beg for a tow across and as my begging skills have always been far more honed than my boating skills, they mercifully agreed.
I had given myself 3 days to get to the Savick Brook Basin and the beginning of my homeward stretch on the wider canal network. Plenty of time to tackle the weed choked southern reaches of the Lancaster canal, where only the intrepid choose to travel by boat for fun.
My mate Monkey and I had one more opportunity for a night out together before this. Our intention was to enjoy an evening listening to a fellow boater sing in a band at the local bar, but it quickly got out of hand. Somehow. We decided to splinter off..
I really wanted to watch the sun set one last time at my favourite mooring half an hour’s cruise away called the ‘Lambing Fields’. ( I love the random names given to particular moorings over the years. Passed along from boater to boater, a colloquial navigational map of the best sunsets, sunrises, views and so on)
We therefore jumped on the boat and set off, Neil Diamond blasting out of the speaker, back to our true uncool selves, singing our hearts out and dancing whilst cruising. Our last evening together on the boat. We’d had such a fantastic summer. Talking rubbish for hours. Watching sun sets, sat on the back deck under the stars, just the best of mates.
I managed to moor up next to another boat with grace and aplomb (well it felt like that). Then decided to light a bonfire on the towpath in the fire pit I kept in the bow well, to keep us warm as darkness fell. We had been ‘quietly’ singing, sniggering and shushing so as not to disturb my neighbour when I went in for yet another glass of wine.
I’m not really sure how I managed it, but as I stepped off the boat in my bare feet (I’d spent all summer running about bare footed) I staggered, booted the fire pit which fell over, immediately setting the towpath alight with a mighty wumph! Oh my god, panic!
Monkey impulsively tipped his precious cans of Skol over the fire to quench the flames, no idea why, as there was a canal full of water right there.
The morning after, Andrea on the neighbouring boat commented, as she perused the damage that could only have been made by 50 people at a rave, we sounded like a pair of hysterically cackling and drunk ferrets running about trying to put out the flames. A miracle we didn’t burn ourselves. It was definitely time for me to leave the Lanky though.
However, that began another friendship. I was to meet Andrea again on our travels over the Link and beyond. Another great positive that comes with living on the cut. The fortuitous meetings.
There were 8 boats crossing the Link on that hottest of days in early August. We all paired up to reverse into the staircase locks which marked the beginning of our journey from Savick Brook Basin to Tarleton on the Leeds and Liverpool canal.
It’s an odd feeling reversing down a staircase, you can’t quite get your bearings.
Sailing out, Huffler and I turned the boats forwards and suddenly found ourselves in the most bewitching stretch of water. This really was a brook! The trees had grown over the brook on both sides creating an Amazonian tunnel for us to travel through. The boats struggled with the shallow water, constantly running aground but the experience was so incredibly worth it, as we had found ourselves in what felt like a forgotten, secret paradise.
All the boats eventually moored at the big sea lock with trepidation, where we would wait for the tide to be at its highest point so we could cross in a flotilla.
I could not leave the tiller for one moment during the 3 hour crossing so I had to make sure the crew of 2 (including my daughter, Kitty) and I were life-jacketed up, the 2 way radios were working to stay in touch with Huffler, who would have me tethered from my bow to their long stern line. Although I was traveling under my own steam, being tethered to Huffler was extremely reassuring when faced with the treacherous rip tides, hidden sand banks and gusting winds on the 7 mile crossing.
Imagine the scene..
8 boats all tightly breasted up on the holding jetty, bobbing around side by side, like whippets in a trap. One of the hottest days of the year. Engines are already overheating, so are the skippers. The lock keeper appears on the horizon and gives the thumbs up.
And we’re off!!
It was like Wacky Races! Everyone’s vying to be first through the lock, no time to waste. The boats are bumping off each other as we barrel out of the sea lock, go round the last bend to then enter the Ribble Estuary proper. As we did so, we could see the rip tides we were just about to hit, swirling fast; angry stretches of water to be navigated around. We had all started in a huddle, now all 8 boats were scattered right across the open water. Some clearly struggling and careering around, others picking their way through the rip tides, some charging along with powerful engines.
It was truly magnificent. To be sailing out in open water, the vast expanse of sea and sky was incredibly overwhelming, especially having been hidden in a what felt like an Amazonian tributary only minutes before.
Tony and Margaret on Huffler were superb, the crossing was going smoothly and I had started to relax.
It was then, just on relaxing, that I hit a rip tide, Tony had managed to dodge it, but my little boat started acting like a water ski, swerving dramatically from side to side, the waves splashing up the gunwhales, being pulled forwards by a rope that looked like it could snap at any moment under the force.
It was a massive struggle to correct her even under my own power and being towed, she hit sand bank after sand bank, listing wildly. I was truly amazed that Tony could navigate so accurately through the undeniably treacherous waters. He pulled me through on what undoubtedly, because of the profound and fast tidal change, would have been an overnight stay on a sand bank in the middle of the Ribble Estuary for me, the boat and my crew (on reflection at that moment, having precious cargo on board in the form of my daughter was a tad rash). That, or my little boat would have been out to sea, backwards and upside down without my tether.
It was a harsh and absolute education of how wrong things could go in the blink of an eye and a note to myself not to relax too much again. I was just relieved I’d used the cassette before I set off as that would have been tricky.
A little while after this, only slightly relaxing, as I was enjoying watching all the different sea birds flying over, drinking in the beautiful scenery and also checking out the wild washing machines and ubiquitous shopping trolleys beached on the banks, I saw something on the horizon.
It was getting closer quickly. A tug boat.
He got rather intimidatingly right along side us, then asked which boat was in distress (clearly he thought it was me as he’d been watching my boat swing like a pendulum off the back of Huffler).
Ooh! A boat in distress! I’d been too busy water skiing to notice. Apparently one of the boats was over heating, having to fight themselves out of a riptide that required full engine revs to try and stop them going sideways, then backwards . They were well off piste and behind schedule so had made the emergency call for a tow.
The crossing surely was living up to it’s reputation for being scary, erratic and downright dangerous in parts.
We all managed to eventually pass through the river lock at Tarleton in the nick of time and moored up together all in varying forms of shredded nerves, euphoria and profound bowel evacuations.
I was absolutely banjaxed.
An early night was needed as there was more fun ahead the next day.
I was in the beginning of home waters now, the Rufford arm of the Leeds and Liverpool canal. Very exciting. Now that the drama of crossing the link was behind me from the previous day, I could enjoy the cruise up the hefty locks of the Rufford branch and onto the Leeds and Liverpool canal proper. It took a day of victory cruising with Kitty and our friends on board, helping with the swing bridges and locks to get to our home town of Parbold.
This was the bit I’d dreamed of. The bit when I brought my precious boat home. The bit that I’d focussed on through all the dark and difficult days.
So it would have been rude not to immediately do a crowd surfing loop of all the pubs in the village as a home coming gesture.
My short suffering, disgruntled boyfriend gave a huge sigh of relief. At least I was going to be at home now that I had the boat back. He’d have a sensible, well-behaved girlfriend that wore shoes from now on..
I had a wonderful time taking friends and family out on little cruises from the visitor moorings at Parbold.
A notable one was taking my sister and niece out for the day. It was a glorious day. Last time my sister was on a narrowboat was her wedding day. We had a fabulous round trip, however, just as I was about to moor up back home, the engine alarmingly overheated. Again. I cut the power and tried the old butter knife trick once more. This time I took the sea cock hose off and blew into it to try and remove the blockage from the inlet pipe. Get me being a boat mechanic! ( Full disclosure, I had Big John on facetime showing me how to do it) The inlet pipe was too blocked, it wouldn’t shift. What I needed was some Big Equipment. I needed an air hose to blow the crud out that the raw water pump had sucked in. Not the easiest thing to find on a towpath. Also I’d have to plug it in somewhere. Now how the on earth was I going to achieve this? Can’t move the boat as she’s overheating. Can’t start the engine to power the air hose because she’s overheating and there is no other 240v supply available on the towpath.
Miraculously I found a portable air hose (not very portable as it was heavy as hell) and a couple of extension reels. Next was to charm my one and only boat neighbour to move their boat next to mine and leave their engine running so I could use their mains power. That way I could fire up the compressor and shoot air through the hose to unblock it.
Guess What? It only went and worked! A jubilant wriggle dance on the towpath ensued. I’d actually fixed her! Thanks again to getting unconditional help from a fellow boater. I blimmin love the cut for this.
Now to settle down, moor the boat up for a while and concentrate on pressing matters like working for a living and not being a rubbish girlfriend.
That lasted 10 whole days.
I couldn’t help myself, I decided to take my little boat on another adventure.
This time to Chester! A round trip of 162 miles, 62 locks, 6 tunnels and god knows how many swingbridges. All singlehanded. What could possibly go wrong with that idea?
Needless to say, I was immediately chucked by my disgruntled boyfriend. No matter, I’d been chucked by him more times than a ball at a rugby match.
I was determined to embark on this new journey.
But how exactly was I going to achieve it? I honestly had no idea and the first hurdle to overcome was the scariest lock ever. Appley Bridge deep lock.