When the weather is fine then you know it's a sign
For messing about on the river.
If you take my advice there's nothing so nice
As messing about on the river.
There are long boats and short boats and all kinds of craft,
And cruisers and keel boats and some with no draught.
So take off your coat and hop in a boat
Go messing about on the river.
Let's start with an admission: we didn't actually mess about on a river as advised by Josh MacRae in his 1961 hit single (was it really that long ago?) but we did have an extremely enjoyable day messing about on a canal. In our case, in a hired day boat on part of the Shropshire Union Canal. An uber-relaxing way to spend a day with good friends and a unique perspective from which to view what was going on around. It was a first for us and something that bears repeating.
It was a very still and mostly sunny day so the conditions were ideal for capturing reflections. And I like reflections, particularly when there's lots of green around. Just in case you are wondering, our boat was considerably smaller than the ones like this that were of the typical canal long boat design. Ours was more of the canal short boat type. Small but perfectly formed, with a toilet and a cooker for a fry-up at the mid-point of our trip.
Just one of the many bridges we passed under. We were not allowed to negotiate any locks which was just as well as my steering abilities hover a shade above zero. Steer right to go left and left to go right: the theory's straightforward, the practice less so.
Every bridge and tunnel has its own number. Not quite GPS but perfectly adequate for getting your position on the canal.
Most bridges had cast iron bridge guards which were used to protect the masonry against rope induced friction. Each bears the grooves produced by the countless rubbing of the ropes pulled by the horses.
We started at the wharf at Norbury Junction and headed south for about 6 miles. At a speed of 2 mph, our aim for the day had to be very modest. Speeding was frowned upon as it causes erosion of the canal banks and upsets resident houseboat owners by making their dishes rattle.
Some rather diffuse reflections.
Bridge 33? Nah, upon reflection I think it's Bridge 34.
Sometimes the towpath had to move from one side of the canal to the other. Turnover or roving bridges allowed the towing horse to cross the canal without the tow line getting caught up in the bridge. The horse approaches on the right bank, goes up the incline, across the canal, back to the towpath on the same side of the bridge and then under it and away without a hitch. I find the smooth curves of this one to be very attractive and the reflection pleasing.
Just look at how still the water was.
The sight of these three boys fishing on the canal bank reminded me of the hours I used to do this on the Newport to Merthyr Tydfil Canal at Rogerstone. Roach were our target then, with the odd bream and carp. Presumably these boys would have been after the same mix.
Most of the house boats were very well kept and, from what I saw, seemed to be owned by those of a hippy persuasion. Lots of pony tails in evidence for the males and tie-died kaftans for the females.
At Gnosall the canal enters the 81-yard Cowley Tunnel (#33). Originally it was planned to be 690 yards long, but after the rocky sandstone first 81 yards, the ground was unstable, and the remaining length was opened out to form the present narrow and steep-sided Cowley Cutting.
The parents of these five cygnets have done well to get them all to this stage. It's not that common for broods this size to get through the lottery of growing up in a world full of predators.
A composite from a fairly typical day trying to get a decent shot of a kingfisher. One obscured, one out of focus and one as the target flies away. There's always next time.
Our hosts on our recent visit up North arranged a trip to the Gladstone Potteries Museum in Stoke-on-Trent and we were glad that they did. It hit the spot at many levels, both sweet and bitter.
The museum is the last untouched example of a North Staffordshire potbank – the small earthenware and china works which dominated the six towns of Stoke-on-Trent for more than two centuries. The six towns – Tunstall, Burslem, Hanley, Stoke, Fenton and Longton – grew up close to the outcrops of tarry coal that provided the fuel for the bottle ovens which loomed over their rooftops and choked them with ash and soot. Life in the shadow of the potbanks was hard, as was the work within them. Entire families would toil for long hours in dangerous conditions driving the many complex processes that were required to make the wares. Thrower, turner, fettler, sponger, one legged dancer, dipper; the names of jobs in the potbank have an earthy resonance, displaying a grim humour in the face of hardship. My favourite; saggar maker’s bottom knocker is the name of the boy who bashed out lumps of coarse local clay inside an iron hoop to form the base of the saggar, a large clay vessel used to contain the ware when it was fired. It was the saggar maker himself who paid the bottom knocker a weekly wage of a pound out of his own pay, which could be as much as six pounds, but the bottom knocker had little hope of earning more for the only route to promotion was through a dead man’s shoes. Not that he would have had long to wait, up until as late as 1900 the average age of an adult at death was 46. Thick choking smog, flint and clay dust, lead poisoning and extreme heat from the ovens all took their toll on the workers but life started to improve in the late nineteenth century as various pieces of legislation were brought in to protect the workers. Finally in 1952, the Clean Air Act forced the smoky bottle ovens to close and changed the landscape around Stoke-on-Trent forever.
Fascinating though the technical aspects of the pottery were, there was a very sombre undercurrent that could not be ignored. That was the lives and working conditions of those who laboured there. They were abysmal and hooray for those who strived to improve the lot of the workers. In the main, these were not the owners or politicians but outsiders who were appalled by what was going on. Of course, things are immeasurably better today but let's not be so complacent as to ignore the iniquities of some modern working practices. I'm thinking of zero hour contracts, sub-minimum wage jobs, unpaid internships, the gradual erosion of terms and conditions of employment and the demonisation of those who agitate for employees rights. All of these are echoes from the past and all of them, now as then, are for the benefit of the owners and shareholders. It still makes me angry. And I'm glad it does as it would be terrible not to be stirred by it.
A view of some of the brick-built bottle ovens at the Gladstone Potteries Museum. They are called bottle ovens because of their shape, not because bottles are made within them. What you see is the outer skin called the hovel. This provides the updraught for the oven feeding the inner kiln, it also funnels away the smoke and provides weather protection for the kiln. There were many hundreds of these in Stoke at the height of the pottery industry, each belching out smoke and fumes. Imagine that, if you can, without coughing in sympathy.
A collection of old tools in the Engine House. The notice on the wall for the wares of William Boulton, Engineer was an introduction into a word lover's paradise: the vocabulary of the Pottery. Dull would he be of soul who could not be entranced by words like blunger, sifter and jigger?
Each individual task in the process of making the various products of the pottery had its own terminology, meanings now lost to general use but kept alive with working museums such as this one. Just Google 'pottery terms' if you want to find out more. I wonder if any other keen eyes can spot the spelling mistake on this poster? Once an editor, always on editor!
Saggars stacked vertically in a kiln, ready for firing. Every inch of space was used as the more that could be fired simultaneously, the higher the productivity and, as most of the workers were on piece work, the higher the take home pay.
The vertical stacks were known as bungs and might have had as many as 20 saggars, one on top of the other. It's when you see this that you realise how important it was that the saggar maker produced something that was flat and which enabled efficient stacking. The man who placed the saggars in the kiln was called, mmm, a placer. The formal oven process normally allowed 48 hours after firing temperatures (some 1200 - 1500 degrees C) had been reached before the placers went back in to take the fired goods out, but it was not unknown for the supervisors to insist that the placers went in before this and when the temperatures were still high and the goods still very hot.
I had a teeny weeny taste of what the placers must have gone through when I had a student job on the coking ovens at Bedwas Plant. It was hot work and we had very little in the way of protective clothing provided by the management. In fact all we were given were steel rimmed wooden clogs as normal footware would soon burn off. That's me in the photograph, sweeping stray coal into an oven. Happy days.
The inner part of the hovel is the kiln proper. It is a round structure with a domed roof, called the Crown, and its walls are typically around a foot thick. The coal fires are lit below the central chamber and it requires about 14 tons of coal for every firing of the kiln. Because the heat causes the brickwork to expand and contract, the walls are strengthened with wrought iron straps called bonts, placed a couple of feet apart.
Just a few of the many moulds made for pieces such as vases, tea pots and other items too intricate to be made directly from clay and needing to made from clay suspension or slip.
Colouring the pottery and the glazes was an exact science, and had to be for reproducibility. An old fashioned chemistry lab dealt with the mixing and dispensing of the necessary. Actually, it was probably more like an apothecary's.
The Colour Store where all the pigments were kept. All stored, appropriately, in porcelain jars.
A visit to the Pottery Museum has the bonus of an exhibition called 'Flushed with Pride'. Located in the bowels of the site, it offers an intriguing gallery, with a touch of potty humour, dedicated to the history of the toilet. In its way it lifts the lid on the role that potters played in the development of the khazi and there one can follow the story of the WC from the time of Queen Elizabeth 1 through to the toilet of our future.
Possibly the grossest game I've ever played. "What did people use before toilet paper? - Feel the clue for removing your poo." Put your hand into the closed toilet roll and see what you can feel - sponges, feathers, bits of old cloth, soft twigs etc. I'm sure I could adapt this and make a Xmas game for the grandchildren.
Getting right up to date and addressing one of the big issues of our times: Stand. Sit or Squat. I went through the motions of studying this carefully, even though the display was at the rear of the exhibition.
Entitled 'The Miner's Bathtime', this exhibit of a tin bath was quite poignant and very familiar to those of my generation. My nan had one hanging by her back door and it was used for baths in front of her coal fire. It had been used by my grandfather when he was alive and when he came home from the mine covered in coal dust. Although there were showers at the pit head, many miners preferred to clean up at home.
And that's me sporting a very stylish knotted hankie on my head as I enjoy a dip in my nan's tin bath with my aunty Phyll. Taken in July 1949, I was just under two years old. How time flies.
And finally: the young lady at the back is the one legged dancer. And if you are wondering why she is called a one legged dancer it is because when small girls worked the large wheel to keep the potter’s wheel turning they would have to stand up high on one leg to reach the top.
Here's something that I'd written soon after our trip to Mull but, for some reason, never got around to posting. As it completes my record with a description of some of our time on Iona, one of the main reasons for visiting Mull in the first place, here it is as originally typed. This is the last post on our recent break on Mull and I thought I'd show a few photographs taken when we were on Iona. From what I gather, we had chosen a good time to be on the island as it gets extremely busy during the high season. Personally I think I would have been very disappointed if I'd gone there and found myself just one of many. The place has a unique tranquility and is best visited when there are few other distractions, like people.
Iona has been an important centre of Christian worship since St Columba arrived in AD 563. Despite the repeated attention of Vikings, his monastery survived until the end of the 12th century. Around 1200, a Benedictine abbey was founded and, although monastic life on Iona ended with the Protestant Reformation in 1560, pilgrimages to St Columba's Shrine continued to thrive over the ages, right up to the present day.
At the centre of the grass court (the garth) around which the Iona cloister is built, lies this sculpture by Jacques Lipchitz called 'Descent of the Spirit'. It is one of three originals and was given to the Abbey by the artist himself. It shows the Virgin supported in a starry cloud descending to earth, represented by animals, birds and humans, and carried by the Holy Spirit, a Dove. I'd make room for it in my garden, if offered.
A view from the west end of the Abbey, looking over the font towards the altar at the far end. It was, for me at least, surprisingly but effectively austere. Pilgrims would certainly not be distracted by the presence of effigies or any other idolatrous images.
Around the outer cloister wall is an array of medieval grave slabs. Many of these originally stood outside in St Oran's Chapel burial ground. The carving is intricate, with common motifs including flowers, swords, and hunting scenes. Many of the slabs commemorate clan chiefs, including MacKinnon, MacLean and MacLeod chieftains.
The layout of Iona Abbey follows a traditional monastic layout, with a cloister walk adjoining the church, although in this case the cloister is unusually sited on the north side of the church. Very little remains of the original medieval cloisters and what's there now was rebuilt in the 1950s and 60s. Though modern, the cloister is carved to resemble an authentic medieval cloister with double rows of columns supporting capitals carved with flowers and birds.
Taking a break at the north end of Iona, looking out towards Staffa and Lungha. There are no footpaths on the island but, with the Right to Roam Act, most places are accessible.
The highest point on Iona is Dun I. Not pronounced 'Dun One' but 'Dun EE'. It simply means 'Mount Iona, I being the local name for Iona. Nomenclature aside, what is interesting about Dun I is that it is crowned by yet another Vanessa trig point, news of which will excite some of my readers as much as it did me. Look closely at this one and, unless I'm mistaken, you'll be able to make out the striations of the original cardboard tube that was used as the mould. Now, isn't that fascinating?
Just the top of one of the many Celtic crosses on Iona. I'd never really thought much about the design of these before and, in so far as it went, I would have said that the top was a combination of the sun/halo and the cross. However, someone in the Abbey pointed out that, given the number of early broken crosses they've come across, there is a view that the circular pieces were added to stabilise and strengthen the cross. Makes sense to me.
Another view of the interior of the Abbey, this time looking east-west towards the font and the main door. The choir stalls are in the forefront and were magnificently carved.
The Abbey Museum, as well as detailing the evolution of religion on the island, contains an amazing collection of Celtic crosses. Several were around 5 - 6 meters tall and must have been quite a sight when they were firmly embedded in the landscape.
Another monument on the island is the Iona Nunnery, an Augustinian convent located close to the Abbey. It was established just after the foundation of the monastery in 1203 and its ruins form the most complete remains of a medieval nunnery extant in Scotland. And I probably don't need to say it but, after the Reformation, the priory was dissolved and reduced to rubble. One thing I will always remember about my ramble around these ruins is coming across a group of, presumably, pilgrims relaxing and smoking some 'herbal' cigarettes. They seemed very happy and relaxed, as I was but without the assistance of anything herbal.
One last look southwards down the Iona Sound....
....before getting on the ferry back to Fionphort. We'll return to Iona one day.
Our last day and time to head back to the ferry at Roscoff after a very enjoyable family holiday. As we weren't sailing until 4.45 pm we thought we'd take the opportunity to visit St Pol de Leon, a town about 5 miles from the ferry port (not the St Pol de Leon just outside of Penzance in Cornwall. Same name, same saint but different country). We were glad we did as it turned out to be an unexpected pleasure, as was the town of Roscoff itself. More than just a ferry terminal and well worth taking more time to wander over the next time we are in the area. 2018 maybe?
The most striking feature of St Pol de Leon as we approached the town was the spire of the Paul Aurelian Cathedral (oops, sorry, Cathedrale Saint-Paul-Aurelien). Who he? A Welsh monk who founded the original church in the 6th Century upon which the present 13th century building stands. I don't think the scaffolding is mediaeval but the way the French build things, who knows? It could be.
View of the cathedral nave with the choir in the distance. Although you can't see them, the choir stalls were magnificently carved in oak. Note that, unlike Quimper, the builders of this cathedral managed to keep to a straight line.
The lit dome above the main altar still retained its original paintings. Well worth risking a crick in the neck to look at these. See the pains I go to for my readers? I hope you are grateful.
Lots of excellent stained glass to admire but this, the Rose Window, is actually painted glass, and certainly none the less beautiful for that. It dates from 1873. There's a lot to see in this one. At the heart is a depiction of the "Holy Trinity" and around this image are eight angels playing various musical instruments and, in a ring around these eight angels, are a further sixteen paintings of prophets, martyrs and saints either singing or playing instruments. A veritable celestial choir to accompany soaring souls?
Here's something we puzzled over. That they contained bones was obvious but beyond that they were a bit of a mystery and very intriguing. Luckily there was a plaque nearby that filled in the details. Called "Les Etagères de la nuit", these wooden "skull boxes" or "boîtes à crâne" are kept behind a grill in the cathedral's ambulatory. Each box holds a skull and the box is inscribed with the name of the person to whom the skull belonged. The box takes the form of a small chapel surmounted by a cross with a trefoil shaped opening. At one time these "skull boxes" were common in Brittany and it was the practice up until the 19th century to remove skeletons from the cemetery after they had been buried for 5 years in order to create space for new remains. The bones were placed in the ossuary or charnel house but the skulls were passed to the deceased's family and many chose to have the skull placed in these chapel shaped boxes and kept on display. The skulls seen on the shelves come from all classes of society from a baker, a health inspector, an infant aged only 6 and a priest. Seriously morbid or fascinating? Take your pick.
Around the cathedral is a veritable warren of old streets, all named after the occupations of the original inhabitants. This is a view from the Rue de Buerre where, as the name suggests, the butter makers used to live. Towering over this part of town is the spire, not of the cathedral but of the Notre-Dame du Kreisker Chapel. At 80 m high, the tower is the highest in Brittany.
The Kreisker Chapel, although based on an earlier wooden building, dates from the 14th and 15th centuries. One story is that the English (the Welsh didn't do things like that) burnt the wooden structure down and then rebuilt it in stone. Perhaps they wanted to show the French how to do it properly? Notwithstanding the xenophobia, the interior of the chapel is replete with artefacts of interest, not least of which is the Altar of the Visitation. Originally part of a convent, it was moved to its present position after the French Revolution. Another masterpiece of wood carving, with four highly intricate columns framing the painting in the middle. One thing I like doing is running my hands over such carvings, in part hoping that some of the skill would rub off on me. Of course, it never has and, of course, I would never indulge my fetish on such valuable carvings as these.
Columns and arches everywhere, necessary to support the weight of the high tower above.
Low tide at Plage de Sainte-Anne, which is just on the fringes of St Pol de Leon. When the tide is in, it seems to be quite the place for swimming, windsurfing etc. And when the tide is out, mud paddling might be the only option.
And we say farewell to France as our return voyage begins. It looks as if the ramp dumps cars straight into the sea: perhaps it will actually do this once Brexit is in force?
One out and one in. The next ferry standing off until ours is at sea. The crossing takes around 6 hours to cover the 120 miles or so and we were lucky on both legs as it was relatively smooth.
Just inside the Breakwater back at Plymouth lay this Fleet Auxilliary supply ship looking rather ghostly in the gloaming. How do I know it's an auxiliary vessel? Easy. It has a large 'A' in front of its number.
It's a reasonably high tide and the Breakwater is doing what it designed to do, breaking the waves.
Back where we started with a rear view of Drake's Island, with some of Plymouth's lights twinkling in the background. Somewhere over to the left and away about 15 miles is where we live. Unfortunately, the enhanced security at Passport Control and Customs meant that it was a long while before we could cover the final hop.
No family holiday would be complete without a family photograph - redacted, of course, to protect the innocent. Either that or we were all wearing mudpacks. Not a bad looking bunch, even with the mudpacks.
