Pelsall Bound

Thursday started misty and mysterious. The canal was peaceful, and everything smelled damp and perfumed. We set off for Sneyd Junction with time to spare. We needed to use the services there, as well as meeting Ian.

The beauty of this canal is different from that of all the others we know. It's lined on both sides with reeds and rushes, and lilies yellow, white and pink. The countryside stretches are wooded with occasional parkland. On this misty morning, the colours are many subtle shades of green and brown with highlights of purple and yellow.

Ian arrived shortly after we'd pulled in at Sneyd Junction services. He identified the leaky fuel problem, and out it right fairly quickly. He told us some tales, too! Then off we went again, Pelsall-bound.

Old working boat and butty on their way to the festival

There is problem with all of the plant life, in that it makes the channel so very narrow. Fortunately, we only met one boat in the miles before Pelsall (and that was in bridge-hole!), but this canal is single file only, with passing places. And the reeds grow in clumps, and these break up with time and motion, sending islands of the stuff floating away across the water. Add to that the cast-offs of the locals – wood, tyres, shopping trolleys, carrier bags, a door, two windows and a toilet seat, then navigation becomes a slow slalom, made slower by the shallowness of the water. My full-time occupation is to keep an eye out for hazards on the starboard side while Grace watches to port, and there are frequent shouts of “Island ahead, skipper!”, or “Watch out for the crocodile!” (codeword for any Unidentified Floating Object). 

But frankly, the visual experience of the Wyrley is well worth the annoyance of the rubbish in the water, a huge tangle of which I had to remove from the propeller, and another mess of which got sucked into the bow-thruster. Fortunately, it got thrust out again later.

It had started to rain, and this became very heavy as we arrived at Pelsall Common. We moored at the first available space, and were soon attended by the “Harbour Master”, who directed us to our designated space right next to the main common area, breasted up outside NB Valiant No. 7, owned by a very friendly Sue and Trevor.

We were drenched. Lots of boaters were, but there was already a good festival feeling, a joviality that boaters have in the rain.

A week ago, we were afraid that we were going to have to miss the festival because of the time we lost, broken down in Audlem. But here we are now, a day early!

Back on the move again!

Monday, and we're moving on again – at last! Two final locks took us off the Audlem Flight, and Kantara chugged her way happily through them, though she was emitting more exhaust than usual. It's to be expected, Ian had told us, and it could continue for some days. It's pretty bad for Grace when she's down in a lock, because the smoke has nowhere to go until the boat's risen to the top where it gets blown away by any breeze.

Shortly after those locks, we were climbing the Adderly Locks, five of them, then on through more, beautiful countryside. At Market Drayton, we stopped for full services (sigh of relief! - we were very short of water), then moved on a few hundred yards to a visitor mooring where we munched our lunch, and restocked our fridge at a nearby Asda.

Tyrley Locks were next, very similar to the previous flights – not very deep, and with culverts emptying excess water from above the lock out into the pound below, causing strong currents, and making entry to the lock a challenge each time.

Within a mile of Tyrley Top Lock, the canal enters a deep cutting. There's a warning as you enter that there's a danger of falling rocks (they don't mention trees, but there's a very real and present danger of some of these falling, too), and a directive not to exceed 2 mph. Another interesting feature is that most of this mile or so is only wide enough for one boat, with passing places for those awkward moments!

We moored at Goldstone Bridge, the Shroppie Ledge being a hindrance to us for the first time. There's a lot of craft here.

Interesting mooring!

We've done 22 lock miles today! If we keep up this pace, we'll still get to the IWA Festival!

Ian to the rescue!

Sunday
Ian Skoyles arrives (lovely surname!) at 9:30 with a big box of tools, two empty plastic containers and a big smile. And a story of how very tired he is because of working very late very often. I'm hoping he'll be able to think straight, despite his fatigue.

Between his countless horror stories of previous jobs, the lovely Ian pumps all that expensive diesel fuel and oil out of the engine, and replaces the lift pump. He's then able to say with confidence that Sam had made the right diagnosis of the situation. Phew! He tells a few more stories, then pours new oil in where the gunk had been pumped out. And turns the starter. There's a very loud bang. Which dismays all three of us.

“That doesn't sound good,” he says, as if we don't know it. I offer him a cup of tea or coffee.

“Not now, thanks. I'll have one to celebrate, when I've finished!”

It occurs to him now that there's probably fluid in the cylinders, so he removes the fuel injector from the first cylinder, and tries it again. This time, the loud bang is accompanied by a large quantity of gunk being propelled from the cylinder at high speed, covering Ian and the inside of the engine-room. This is going to be too messy a business to be repeated another three times.

The solution is to syphon the fluid from each cylinder, but for that, Ian needs his syphon pump. This is at home, so he has to go and get it. I suggest he has a quick lunch while he's there. He showers, and changes his oily clothes while he's there, too!

Returning an hour or so later with the pump, a smile and another story, he empties each cylinder of gunk, then tries again to start the engine. Zilch. Now he finds there's diesel/oil mix in the exhaust pipe, so he removes the injectors again, to reduce the internal pressure of the engine whilst cranking the engine to clear the pipe, and he cranks and cranks for seconds at a time, and I'm amazed he doesn't flatten the battery. Diesel and oil get pumped out of the exhaust pipe over the grassy bank. Encouraged by this, he keeps going until it stops spilling out. Then he replaces the injectors.

And starts an uncomplaining engine. We all cheer!

Then follows a period of much white smoke pouring out the back of the boat as he runs the engine to burn off all of the excess fuel in it. The smoke, dense as it is, elicits various responses from walkers and boaters alike. Perhaps you might imagine some of them.

My favourite is, “I thought you were having a barbecue!”

Ian cleans up the mess from the engine and the bilges, and goes on his way. He's spent more than nine hours on the job, and he's still smiling. What a star! 

He tells me a few more stories while we're carrying all of his stuff back to his van.