Canals and bad news

9 April 2016

As I stood at the side of the canal watching a barge slowly make its way under the railway bridge I smiled. What a relief. Commando’s ankle was feeling ok, if not perfect, and the marathon was back on. All those months of training hadn’t been wasted, even if he was unlikely to get a PB. All my walk planning hadn’t been wasted either and I was looking forward to exploring the canals further. Suddenly the day felt better and I began to really enjoy the walk, although it was half over.

The sky was blue and, as I stood there grinning like a loon, two swans appeared out of nowhere. This seemed like a good omen. Swans have always been like a motif running through my life. As they swam towards the railway tunnel I slowly followed, wondering if anyone ever threw them bread or swan food.

On the other side of the tunnel I was distracted by a blue barge with a row of plants in pots on its roof but the swans popped up again beside it. They seemed to be swimming in the direction I was walking. Then a pair of Canada geese appeared. Who knew there was so much wildlife on the canal?

Under another dripping railway line I reached a kind of canal junction with modern buildings and the ever present railway arches on the opposite bank. Passing under yet another arch I saw a curved white footbridge ahead, a very modern affair. Then there was a graceful iron bridge. As I passed under it I emerged from the shady part of the canal into bright sunshine. The red brick supporting the bridge seemed to glow in the light.

There were a confusing amount of bridges everywhere I looked plus arms of canal and rail tracks going off in all directions. Once the final railway bridge was behind me I had rather more choice than I’d have liked. Obviously this posed a problem because I didn’t really know which way to go. Should I cross the attractive white footbridge and, if I did, should I take the canal to the right or left? As usual I dithered.

Eventually I decided to give the white bridge a miss because I had an idea my hotel was to the left. The towpath led me past a restaurant with tables and chairs set out in the sun. I thought it might be a nice place to come back to later for lunch and tried to make a mental note of where it was.

Ahead was another bridge and another choice. The towpath I’d been following crossed to the other side but ahead there appeared to be yet another canal. It seemed like a maze and I was a rat stuck in it. In the end I resorted to Google Maps and stuck to the canal I was on. This, I now knew, was the Rochdale Canal and it did look as if it led back towards the hotel. Probably.

The last bridge I’d crossed turned out to be the tail of a lock and I stood for a moment looking at the gears and the water rushing through. Locks fascinate me, probably because there are none left on the Itchen Navigation, and I like to imagine what they might have been like. On the other side of the canal, between the head and tail gates there was a little cottage. I guessed it was probably once the lock keeper’s house. Maybe it still is as this lock seems to be very much in use.

On I went, along the narrow, cobbled towpath in the shadow of interesting old brick buildings. The smell of woodsmoke in the air told me people were living in the row of barges I passed and the shining glass finger of the Beetham Tower told me I was heading the right way.

There was a real sensation of stepping back in time here, the crumbling brickwork, derelict factory towers, moss, algae, an old bike leaned against the wall and the calm, still water reflecting it all. If I lived in this bustling city this would be the place I’d come to escape.

All of a sudden the view ahead began to look strangely familiar. When I’d passed under the next bridge I realised why. I was standing on the towpath I’d looked at from Pioneers Wharf earlier. There was the barge, the daffodils and homeless camp. This was at once a relief and a worry. Obviously I had been walking the right way but I had no more idea how to get off the towpath to the road than I’d had of how to get from the road to the towpath earlier.

There was nothing for it but to keep going forward. Ahead was a long dark tunnel with a sign saying Deansgate Tunnel and, above it I could see the sign that had misdirected me earlier. The arm saying Home, was pointing through the tunnel. Perhaps it was a good omen?

The tunnel was longer, damper and darker than I expected. On the other side was a lock gate with a cascade of water. Crooked stone steps led up to it, worn by centuries of feet. Someone had left a beer can on one of the steps. For a moment I thought about climbing them but in the end I walked around them instead. On the other side of the canal were buildings I recognised from the road near the hotel. If I’d been brave enough to walk across the gates I’d have been home and dry. Maybe dry is a bit of a stretch, I’d probably have fallen in, even with the handy bars to hold on to.

At the next lock there was a walkway going up to the road. Although I wasn’t entirely sure which road it was I thought about taking them. In the end I carried on though. Something told me I hadn’t gone quite far enough and there was a better way off the towpath ahead. This could have been wishful thinking because I really didn’t want to leave it.

So I walked on, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake and would have to turn back. At the next lock though, my decision was vindicated. Through a break in the buildings I could see the road and it was a road I knew. In fact we’d had dinner nearby the night before. With a touch of sadness I left the canal.

Back at the hotel all was not well. Commando had had his shower but the ankle, that had felt fine when he was running, had started to hurt again. In fact it hurt so much he could hardly put his foot on the ground. He was, quite understandably, despondent.

“I don’t think I’ll be running tomorrow,” he said. “If it feels like this after three miles what will it be like after twenty six?”
The rest of the day was spent mostly resting the ankle. We did go out to get an ankle support in case that helped but it didn’t really. We went out again into the wet evening for dinner but Commando was limping, obviously in pain. As the sun set over the wet Manchester streets it set on Commando’s marathon dream.

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