A Relaxing Weekend on the Canal

The canal runs parallel with the main line of the Trent and Mersey Canal for nearly half a mile until they meet at Hardings Wood Junction. "Heartbreak Hill" locks and Middlewich are to the left; Harecastle Tunnel and Stoke are to the right.


     ‘Switch on here, press this button and turn the key,’ said the man at the Marina when I picked up the barge. I had expected to receive at least a five minute lesson on how to drive the boat. Collecting it fell to me because my son and partner would be working on the Friday. Luckily I remembered that someone had told me that you kept to the right on the canal not the left like the road. So with not a little trepidation I set off.

Although sixty years ago my grandmother lived a few yards from the lock at Hardingswood on the Trent and Mersey canal it was my first trip on a barge. In my childhood my cousins and I took no heed about the dangers of playing near the lock and frequently played tick running and jumping fearlessly to avoid being ‘on’. Frequent walks along the canal side collecting wildflowers with a favourite uncle was my first lesson in learning the names of wild flowers.


This day in less than a mile I reached the Harecastle tunnel. Built in 1825 by Thomas Telford it is nearly two miles long, only wide enough for one boat and unlit. All I had was a lamp on the front of the boat. So a dark, dank narrow tunnel and a boat of 70 feet long and a light a little better than a candle. A metal boat too. No matter how hard I tried the boat ricocheted from side to side. The boom, boom, boom it made was deafening. I was terrified. Remembering my local history I realised I was passing the entrance of a disused coal mine which was reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a murdered woman The Kidsgrove Bogart. My fear was augmented.

When I sailed out into the dazzling sunlight I steered the barge to the side. Still shaking I managed to leap off the boat and tie it up to the huge metal mooring rings. What a relief it was to see my sailing partners coming along the towpath. The terror dispelled I called a cheery welcome.


Relieved that my son Robert and partner Philip had joined me my confidence returned. I felt proud of my single handed maiden voyage. I didn’t tell them how scary my journey through the tunnel had been. They stowed their gear and strapped the three cycles they had brought atop the cabin. Eager to show off my newly acquired seamanship - er - canalmanship, I said I would steer for the first few miles. We began the stretch known as the killer mile on account of the number of locks in such a short distance. I was thankful that there had been no locks for me to negotiate when alone.



It was all going well until I realised too late that there was a lorry, a very long lorry, parked so that its rear end overhung the canal by at least six feet. Yes, I hit it and the number plate on the side of the cabin was sliced off.

I was demoted from steerer to lock opener.

The rest of the first day went well. We moored the boat and cycled towards for the nearest pub. The towpath was narrow and we rode in single file. My son lead, followed by me who was closely followed by Philip. Too closely because he braked hard to prevent himself from touching my rear wheel and whoosh, splosh - into the canal he went. Philip is not an athletic man so I was amazed to see him leap up and out of the water onto the canal side as though he had landed on a springboard. It was just as well as Robert and I were cruelly and uncontrollably laughing. We couldn’t have helped him even if he’d been drowning. The now dripping Philip turned to see his brand new hat floating gently on the water. ‘I must take a photo,’ he said diving into his rucksack for his camera. Aiming it he said, ‘That hat cost me ten quid.’ The hat said, ‘Blub, blub, blub,’ and sank into the murky water before the camera clicked.

As Philip, drenched from head to foot, was shivering with cold we postponed our Pub visit and returned to the barge. Fortunately one of us had brought a bottle of whiskey so we drank to our first day’s excitement and the rest of the trip which was uneventful until the last day.


Nearing the homestretch Philip who was steering called to Robert, ‘Look there’s the lorry your mother hit on the way out. I must take a photo of it.’ He dived down the steps into the cabin for his camera and returned just as we hit the lorry for a second time taking off the other number plate.

On our return through the tunnel Philip took the helm. This time I was unafraid but felt a bit aggrieved that he seemed to be unaffected by the booming of seventy feet of metal on brick in the echoing darkness. I started to tell him the ghost story. I thought it only fair since I had previously negotiated the tunnel of terror alone. As we were passing the entrance to the mine I shouted, ‘Look there she is.’ A white female shape floated towards us then turned into the entrance of the old mine. It was probably a trick of the light but it was enough to make Philip dive into the cabin for the whiskey bottle leaving me to steer us out into the daylight.

We have the photo of the lorry but sadly not the hat. Philip is no David Bailey and it seems that neither of us is Ellen MacArthur.
I have a really poor photo of the lorry but I am unable to copy it to this blog.


You can see information and videos of The Harecastle Tunnel, Kidsgrove on Wikipedia. A very informative website worth visiting is http://www.talke.info .




There is also a history booklet containing information about Kidsgrove and the Harecastle Tunnel called The Best of Kidsgrove News by Philip Leese and Published by Good News 124 High Street Harriseahead ST 7


The Kidsgrove Boggart and the Black by Philip Leese and published by Staffordshire County Council make interesting reading. Unfortunately out of print but I am sure it is available from Hanley or Kidsgrove Library.


It is a pity that Kidsgrove does not use its unique position on the canal to its advantage. It is still exciting to take the trip through the tunnel and to see the old legging tunnel and wonder how families in the past survived the hardships of canal life.

Short Story - Taking Care of the Elderly

Page one

Taking Care of the Elderly

‘She can’t live much longer’.

The words ring in my ears as I walk up the flight of steps to open the door of this Victorian Italianate monstrosity with its curved-glass bay windows.

It is his mother’s house. She is a witch. She is over ninety but retains her power.

‘We’ll marry then. We can wait surely,’ the words support my resolve as I enter. I pass the banistered stairs which go from basement to fourth floor attic. I look up at its ornate ceilings which no-one can reach nor afford to paint. I walk across its woodworm riddled floor boards with its tell-tale creaks. I wonder about its leaking up-in-the-sky-too-high-for-a-ladder roof which houses a multitude of pigeons. When I sleep over I wake in the night as the passing trains shake the foundations and I wonder how it and the witch remain.

‘We will sell the house and have a big wedding,’ I remember his promise.

In the garden the snow drops forecast the coming of Spring. The crocus and daffodils follow and the grass always grows to mowing length. The roses alert us to Summer. Alas the greenhouse only harbours ghosts of lah-di-dah wedding guests sipping champagne. When I’m not in the house my memory plays tricks as does his mother the witch. The rooms are dark and dingy, cold and claustrophobic but when I am here they are light, bright, airy and warm. Today I will not be fooled.

I go to the kitchen to make tea. I wait nervously for the kettle to boil and wonder if I can go through with it. But I must. He will never marry me while she lives and this house will hang around our necks like an albatross for years.

In the living room I sense more ghosts. I glance at the Epstein bust on the bookcase

then the Dresden dancer under a glass dome on the marble mantelpiece. Her

Taking Care of the Elderly

Page 2

suspended action reminds me of my own inability to move forward. But it will change after today. The grand oil painting of their despised, slave-trading ancestor hangs over the settee. He stares down at me with his disapproving eyes. There are tartan rugs thrown over the leather couch and armchairs. Useful occasional tables and practical footstools abound but no dust. When does she do it?

A monstrous antique arm chair, the cause of family feuds stands in the hall. Pathetic! Adults squabbling like children over a useless piece of furniture which has escaping stuffing and a protruding spring. They care for the chair but not her I muse.

I finish my tea and replace the cup carefully so as not to chink on the saucer. I don’t want to alert her. I feel jumpy. And guilty. I have to get it over with before I lose my resolve.

I find myself outside her bedroom tapping on the door. I open it. I’m surprised. The wall paper is not black and she’s not a witch. She’s a beautiful, white-haired, old lady, reclining on pink flowered pillows. Her arms reach out to me. I sit on the bed. She grips my hands. I kiss her lips. She grips harder. She speaks.

‘Forgive me, forgive me. Will you ever forgive me? I have never done it before. Never in my whole life. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?’

I have heard it too many times. The terrible remorse will not prevent her becoming inebriated again. But this will be the last time.

The tears flow.

‘What shall I do? Tell me what to do. The pain. I can’t bear the pain. The loneliness. I’m so unhappy.’

The vice-like grip on my hand tightens.

Taking Care of the Elderly

Page 3

‘Would you like some tea,’ I say without feeling, tearing my hand away. I pass her the cup. I take the miniature whiskey bottle from my pocket and pour in as much as the half-full cup will hold.

‘There,‘ I say, ‘that will keep out the cold and take the pain away.‘

I make my escape but on my way to the door I surreptitiously exchange the empty bottle under the bed for a half-full one. As I close the door her disguise disappears and she’s a witch again in a black-painted room.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief. It was easier than I’d imagined. I cross the landing and go into ‘my’ bedroom. This is where she ‘messes’ with my head. Nothing stays in the same place. It is full of beds. Some are made up, some are piled with blankets others with pillows. There are mattresses propped against walls. The bookcases change places as do the books. How does she do it? My belief is that she twitches her nose to control everything in the house. When does she do it? I know why she does it but I smile to myself, she’s done it for the last time. You can’t control me any more. I’m saner than you and so much younger and he loves me. I’m tempted to scream he loves me out aloud so that she can hear it as she realises her fate. She has had her life. I deserve mine.

I go back to her door and open it just a crack. She doesn’t hear or see me. She is lying back on her pink pillows, eyes closed. She looks peaceful. I close the door silently. I must wait until tomorrow before I raise the alarm. I return to the kitchen where I rinse my cup and saucer. Leaving unwashed crockery would be careless. I notice the clothes-rack which is full of drying clothes. I am convinced that her power comes from nose twitching. How else could she manage this seventeen-roomed house when

Taking Care of the Elderly

Page 4

she is rarely sober and vows that she never leaves her bed. I smile to myself. Well no more your ladyship. Not after you’ve finished your last cup of tea.

I take a bottle of gin from the drinks cupboard and notice that she’s been at this too. I pour half a glass and top it up with tonic. I knock it back in one then pour another. I wonder whether I should go back upstairs to make sure she’s drunk her whiskey-laced tea.

I feel strange. I sit down. I hear the door open. I struggle to stand. I can’t. I fall. I look up at her face.

She says, ‘My teas gone cold I came down to get another. I’m pleased you drank the gin.’

She smiles and steps over me.