Rochdale. Sorry, but your canal system sells of, and probably contains, poo. The rolling hills, old stone bridges and cow-moos of Littleborough gave way yesterday, within an hour and a half of cruising, (which isn't much on a canal boat) to rusting beer cans, old fridge freezers and the incredibly original suggestion that I ought to get my tits out shouted at me by a group of grown men from a bridge. At one point I used the boat pole to move a school blazer out of our path and found myself wincing at the thought that I might find a person inside it (I've watched too many episodes of Inspector Morse). Having lived in big cities all my life I am in a perfect postiton to harbour romantic notions about how the countryside is great and the city is crap. But I don't. I know cities can be crap but they can also be wonderful, buzzing-busy, colourful places to be. I have a feeling that the countryside is ace but I don't know, because I've never lived there. All I do know is that Rochdale, a small city nestled within a still-living and breathing countryside, came as a sharp shock to two people who had just spent 10 days in the middle of various Nowheres.
Or maybe it was just the canal-bit of Rochdale that was angry and dirty. Because within the dross of the day there were still things that reminded you that life still had its sparkly side: Like the 4 teenage girls who sat on the side of the lock I was in with the initial intention of menacing me – a literal captive in a giant stone bath of freezing cold, smelly water – but who were overcome with fascination of how we managed to live in a space that small, especially since there was “no proper fookin' wardrobe!”. I had a good chat with them until they wandered off smiling back at me like a nurse humouring a mental patient. Or here's a good one; the floating rubbish that actually had plants growing out of it – you can be sure life is a inherently bloody optimistic thing when you see plant life managing to grow out of a bit of rotty brown polystyrene floating in the canal. Ooh, and I shouldn't forget Johnny the giant friendly cyclist with the four foot dreads who kept us entertained with his bumbly, cosmic natterings as we negotiated a particularly deep and shit-filled lock in front of a bemused but persistent (and large) audience of locals.
And the weather was absolutely glorious.
On balance though, it all made me go a little bit off the idea of tipping up in Manchester for a few days this weekend. But thankfully a visit from Nick and Jenny yesterday evening as we moored up next to the motorway in Slattocks (apparently named after a contraction of 'South Locks', but it sounds suspiciously biological to me) has dispelled my reticence. They drove out from Chorlton (half an hour for them, two to three days for us) to spend the evening. It was great, and has made me ever such a little bit excited to blow a temporary kiss goodbye to the lovely countryside and get to the big city to go out to play.
Only the 39 locks to go then...
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