Narrow Boats in Manchester and London

Half a dozen years ago I stumbled across an article about British narrowboats on the canals. I've ordered a couple of brochures; I've followed different companies online.

I've finally made it to the holodeck. I found a flotilla in Manchester. I saw individual boats out the train windows on the reposition to London. Walking to find breakfast pastries the other morning, I found the Grand Union Canal in the outskirts of London, and there were half a dozen boats there! As well as a gloriously rowdy canalside pub.

There are all manner of lengths, but most are only eight feet wide. The canals connected the industrial hubs of the country before the railroads came to the fore with greater cargo capacities more quickly. The canal boats were even a serious part of the war (WW-II) effort, manned by women since the men were mostly in combat.

All the boats I have seen, save one, are make-overs, many of them built in the 1930s. These older boats are lovingly maintained, and the level or ornamentation and trimwork are just spectacular . . . polished copper, polished brass, gold-leaf lettering, varnished wood . . . spectacular. I've seen one (the "one" above" with a turquoise plastic or fiberglas deck that just doesn't . . . well, it just doesn't.

What tipped me to the potential of canal boats close by was the tilework on the bridge over the nine lines of railway up on Acton Street. The narrowboat panel shows a swan beside a boat. Two days ago, when first I walked the canal, I saw a Canada Goose with her goslings, and fifty yards or so later, there was a Swan with her cygnets. (I've never before had the opportunity to use that word; I feel somehow fulfilled now.) 

In this suburb, the canal is not overwhelmingly pleasant in whole, but there are green, tended stretches and, of course, the Grand Union Junction Arms public house. That pub will get its own post one of these days.

Those nine rail lines are within fifty feet of where I sit at the kitchen table of this row house. The trains pass at all hours with staggering frequency. And I'm grateful to be able to get around on them, and after a couple of days, you hear them, but they're just a part of the day.

The different trains have different calls . . . some shriek metallically; some grow deep in their bear's throat; many tap dance past like a manic flamenquero; it's just backdrop to the play.

There are two bakeries within half a mile, and the aromas of their making torment my French-treated palate. They are commercial bakeries. Trucks roll in; trucks roll out, and I haven't find a decent pastry shop yet. I shall, however, press on to victory.

Life is incredibly good, y'all.