From bjg@wordwrights.ie Tue Apr 27 14:35:36 1999
Date: Tue, 27 Apr 1999 17:19:01 GMT
From: Brian J Goggin <bjg@wordwrights.ie>
Reply-To: canals@blacksheep.org
To: canals@blacksheep.org
Subject: Trip report: Irish Grand Canal Part 4 (long)

We had left our boat at Lowtown, a place of the utmost importance to
the waterways but of absolutely no importance at all to anybody else.
Lowtown is not marked at all on some maps. There is just a narrow
track (surfaced at one end, not at the other) to it. There are three
or four houses with no shop, no pub, nothing but

- the junction between the main line of the Grand Canal and the Barrow
Line that joins the River Barrow

- an old canal stores, now a boatyard

- a lot of boats, old and new, decrepit and well looked after, afloat
and sunk, cruisers and sailing-boats and canal-boats and narrow-boats
and ...

- the Milltown Feeder, the main water supply to the canal.

One of the most remarkable things at Lowtown and at the next (summit)
level is the perfect clarity of the water. You can see right down to
the bottom: the aquatic plants, the fish and the rubbish (although
there isn't very much at those levels).

A little way along from Lowtown is Robertstown, where there are pubs
and shops. There is also an old canal hotel, used in the days when the
canals carried passenger traffic. This one is still in use as a
heritage centre and a restaurant, packed at lunchtime last Sunday. The
local enterprise also offers short barge trips, one mile in each
direction, on a converted traditional canal-boat.

I arrived at Lowtown on Friday night and met my sister Isolde and her
husband Tony. My wife Anne, 10-year-old son Ian and large hairy dog
were to join us the next day somewhere along the way. I had looked in
on the boat once a week since leaving her at Lowtown: I wasn't sure
whether her mooring-pins would stand the tugging of passing boats. I
needn't have worried about that --- but I did find that the domestic
batteries were drained. That meant no water, but I had some 2-gallon
containers aboard and I filled them at the tap by the lock.

Furthermore, we had no light, so after loading the boat we drove in to
Robertstown to find a pub. The village has four of them: the first two
were very full and very smoky, so we went to a third, which had just a
few locals discussing local affairs and watching the telly. After a
few pints, it was back to the boat and into the sleeping-bags.

On Saturday morning, we woke up at about 9.00am. We decided to get
going, with just a cup of coffee, postponing our bacon and eggs we had
a few miles behind us. We moved the cars out of the way, pulled out
the pins and cast off, heading up the short stretch to the 19th lock,
which would bring us to the summit level. We had to pause along the
way to help manoeuvre a boat in to the diesel pumps at the boatyard,
then we tied below the lock and went up so that I could explain the
principles, the procedures and the safety rules to my crew.

Again, the clarity of the water was astounding: we could see all the
stonework on the floor of the chamber. As we were admiring it, the
lockkeeper came along, so we had his assistance in getting through.
Well, he did almost all the work, actually! He also volunteered to
ring the next lockkeeper to let him know we were coming. Most of the
keepers do this anyway, but there was a particular reason in this
case: we were hoping to get up the short branch-line to Naas.

We set off along the summit, passing the junction with the Old Barrow
Line; it is sometimes usable, I believe, and the Milltown Feeder
actually flows into that branch. I had passed through the hamlet of
Milltown (not much more than a single pub) the previous evening and
had remarked on its canal-like fittings: bridge, bollards and so on.
My sister (the family historian) told me later that a
great-grandfather had worked in Milltown, loading the canal-boats of
the time.

Along the stretch into Robertstown, and everywhere else along the way,
we could lots of fish, large and small, in schools and alone. We
didn't know very much about what types they were; I thought of
Tomangler and wondered whether or not it was an advantage to be able
to see the fish. We also heard birdsong all along the way. We saw lots
of herons, moorhens, swans and ducks, as well as other birds that we
couldn't name --- and they refused to stay still while we got the bird
books out.

At Robertstown, we passed the trip boat, *Eustace*, and another
canal-boat that seemed to be in the early stages of restoration --- or
to be in the final stages of dereliction: it's not always easy to
distinguish them. We also passed David Coote's 45M, one of the most
interesting boats on the waterways.

45M (which was featured in one of Dick Warner's *Waterways* videos)
was an original canal-boat that sank on Lough Derg with a cargo of
stout. She was retrieved many years later and restored to her original
condition: unlike other canal-boats, she has not been converted or
fitted out in any way. David Coote hopes to be able to keep her that
way. He had told me last autumn that some old canal-boat men had asked
to borrow 45M for a nostalgic trip along the waterways; he told me
that they hadn't got beyond Robertstown, where 45M remained.

We passed on, past the place where the Blackwood Feeder used to enter
the canal. The summit level was about four miles long. Depth was
adequate throughout (we draw 2' 10") and weed growth was not serious
(still a bit early in the year) but trees narrowed the canal quite a
bit in some places --- and a couple of them had fallen in to the
canal, although we were just able to get around them. We saw the
remains of the old clay workings at Downings: the clay was used for
lining the canal.

At this stage I discovered that I had forgotten the bacon, so
breakfast consisted solely of scrambled eggs, brown bread, coffee and
marmalade.

The 18th Lock was our first descent since leaving the Shannon. It was
like a toy, a miniature of the real thing, with its mere 5' drop.
After that we went round a bend and on to a straight stretch. A
toddler in a house on our left was greatly excited by our passing,
especially when we waved; he or she followed us right across the
garden and kept waving until we went out of sight. Of course we had to
wave back too.

Landenstown House was on our left, with its imposing entrance gates at
17th lock. That lock was very full, with water cascading over the
breast gate, into the chamber and out over the tail gate. The water
was up level with the top of the chamber, making me worried about the
boat's bottom: we held her out as the water went down.

The keeper came to help and gave us the bad news that the branch line
to Naas was not in good condition. This line was restored some years
ago: it has five locks up to the town of Naas, which used to be the
first town on the road from Dublin to Cork and Limerick but is now
bypassed by a motorway. The canal is little used. We had often passed
over it on the motorway on our way to Dublin and were keen to try it,
if only to show that somebody wanted to use it, but with a small crew,
no local knowledge and the keeper's advice against it, we decided not
to attempt the passage. The keeper told us that IWAI's Kildare Branch
is to hold a rally there next year and that restoration work will be
undertaken before then; later, we met some of the local activists who
wondered whether a work-party might make its way up this year. We said
we'd join them if they were organising something.

>From the 17th Lock we went along a short stretch to 16th Lock. This
area is the headquarters of the Prosperous Angling Club (Prosperous is
the name of a village, not a comment on the club's finances.) and
there were metal plates in the ground on the left bank marking (we
presumed) stations for angling competitions. However, on this glorious
spring day, there were no more than two or three anglers on each side
of the canal, all happy to respond to our greetings.

The left-hand lower gate at 16th Lock gave some trouble: the keeper
told us that there was a stone lodged under it. However, we got past
without too much delay and tied below the lock for lunch. This was a
simple repast of cider and California corn chips: Ian's football
match, which had been scheduled for 9.00am, was postponed until
11.00am, so Anne was unable to leave Limerick with Ian, the dog and
the food until almost 1.00pm. Still, we had a pleasant stop in the
sunshine, talking to the walkers, cyclists and riders using the
towpath on the left bank and the small road on the right. Isolde and
Tony went to look at "the big pot, the little pot, the boolawn and the
skillet", four concentric basins on the towpath side designed to take
any overflow from the canal.

Anne rang and told us she was getting near to where we were, so we
agreed to meet at Sallins, the next village. We set off over the
impressive Leinster aqueduct, which carries the canal over the River
Liffey: nothing like as big as the Pontcysyllte, but the biggest on
the Grand Canal. Two hardy lads were preparing for a swim in the
aqueduct when they saw us coming.

After the aqueduct came the junction with the Naas line at Soldier's
Island. Certainly what we could see of it looked very weedy; when we
met Anne later, she said she had driven over some of it and thought
the same.

Then on into Sallins, a small village that is now effectively a
dormitory suburb for Dublin. As we came in sight of the bridge, we saw
a crowd on the bank and a barge with a high canvas roof held up like a
circus tent, but open on one side. This was the Endeavour, which was
fitted out as a floating theatre. It does not have its own actors: it
seems to send a director on ahead to train local children to act in a
play, which is then staged on the deck in front of a no-doubt
appreciative audience. The venture is, I gather, heavily dependent on
grants. The boat is equipped with one of those £1,000 folding mopeds
so that the crew can get back to their cars: only one person sleeps on
board, and that only some of the time; the interior is fitted out as a
sort of green-room rather than as accommodation.

Anne met us in Sallins and passed over Ian, the dog and some food
before heading for Dublin to see her father in hospital. We did a
little more shopping: some peppers, onions, tomatoes and cream so that
we could have roasted vegetables with pasta on Sunday. Then we decided
to see if we could travel a little further east to Henry Bridge, from
which we could walk to Oughterard as a pilgrimage in honour of the
original Arthur Guinness, who is buried there.

We set off, past about a dozen moored boats, under the railway bridge
and under two road bridges. We travelled in a deepish cutting, with
lots of trees blocking the light; suddenly the canal seemed gloomy and
depressing. Then we found water flowing strongly into the canal, from
some pipe or stream; below that point the water was dirtier and we
could no longer see the bottom. When we left the cutting, we found
that the wind had got up and that the weather had turned cold. At 15th
Lock we found a cruiser with twin stern-drives going down ahead of us:
the first boat we'd seen moving all day. Floating weed had blown up
against the lock gates, making them difficult to open; we learned
afterwards that weed had been cut on that stretch a few days before.

The change in the weather, the strong wind, the weed, the depressing
colour of the water, the short amount of time we had left: all
conspired to make us change our minds and decide to head back to
Sallins for the night. I don't think we could have got down the 15th
and 14th locks and along to Henry Bridge, and then back, in the time
available.

So we pottered back towards Sallins, Isolde steering while I prepared
baked potatoes and a hearty stew (beef, bacon, onions, carrots,
garlic, celery, cider). We rang Anne, and found that she would be back
in time to meet in Sallins. In fact, she got there before us and
directed us in to a snug berth beside the bridge, where we could let
the dog out safely. There were even steps from which Ian could launch
and recover his radio-controlled boat.

Across the way, we found Eddie Brunker. Eddie, who owns a large if
elderly cruiser on Lough Derg on the Shannon, sold his business years
ago and now makes a few bob doing jobs for people on boats. He had
just bought a 50' English narrowboat, which he proposed to hire out
from Sallins, and he was touching up the paintwork.

Eddie came over for a glass of wine before dinner; he then invited us
for a return visit after dinner. Anne, Ian and I went; this was my
first time inside an English narrowboat, so I was looking out for
features that I had seen discussed on uk.rec.waterways. There was the
cruiser stern, the fenders, seats .... And what luxury inside,
compared with our boat! Full, unobstructed headroom throughout, bunks
at the back, loo and shower, kitchen with all mod cons including
full-size cooker and fridge, 220v sockets everywhere, a comfortable
seating area, a solid-fuel stove, wood panelling and, Eddie told us,
huge amounts of insulation. Eddie said that the previous owners, who
had brought the boat from England, had used it so little that some
mattresses were still in their wrappers!

We swapped waterways stories --- or, more accurately, listened to
Eddie, who has been around a lot longer than we have. I asked Eddie to
look at our batteries the following morning, which he agreed to do.
And after a few glasses of rum, it was off to bed at midnight.

At about 4.00am the wind increased again and the ropes and fenders
started making noise. At 4.30am I heroically got out of bed, dressed
and went out to do what I could: re-rig the stern lines, adjust the
fenders and even move the anchor to stop the bowline squeaking where
it rubbed on the anchor stock. But I must say I thought it base
ingratitude that some of my crew should complain about the trifling
noise I made: I mean, I simply had to pull out and stow some anchor
chain to allow the anchor stock to move, and it didn't really make all
that much noise. Back to bed at 5.00am, conscious of a job well done,
to be woken at 9,30 by querulous queries about "What the hell did you
think you were doing, clanking chains in the middle of the night?" and
comparisons to Jacob Marley. No appreciation of honest effort ....

Eddie moved his narrowboat under the bridge so that he could continue
to paint during the threatened rain; then he came over to us with a
gadget for testing electricity. He found that one of the batteries had
died and that all of them were suffering to some extent from neglect.
My fault, I'm sure: this was the first time I'd ever actually seen the
batteries.

What I hadn't understood was that, if you ask the boatyard to look
after your engine, it looks after the large block of metal; it ignores
any ancillary systems like the batteries (and perhaps the fuel system
and other things I haven't yet thought of). Yet when I bring my car
for a service, all of these matters are looked after. I think. Either
that or car batteries don't mind being ignored: I know where to put
petrol in the tank, air in the tyres and water in the windscreen
washers and that's about it. I assumed, wrongly as it now appears,
that the relationship between boats and boatyards was the same as that
between cars and garages. Oh well: one more system that I have to
learn about.

Sunday's weather forecast was for heavy rain and strong winds, so we
decided to head back to Lowtown as soon as possible although, as it
happened, the rain held off until later in the day. We headed towards
Digby bridge at the 16th Lock; Anne (who left her car in Sallins)
jumped off on to the towpath to work the lock while I backed and
filled in the canal while waiting, trying to avoid having the stern
blown around by the wind. Up at the lock, we could see several cars
with four or five men; I thought they might be the Kildare Branch of
IWAI, who were working on the restoration of the side-chamber at 16th
Lock, but it turned out that they were scuba divers who had been
practising in the lock chamber.

Anne seemed to be taking a long time, but eventually the water came
out and then the gate with the stone under it moved slowly open. Then
the other gate --- but it opened only half way. The divers (now
dressed) went to lend their weight; they failed to shift the gate. The
divers drove off; Anne told us that the second gate was jammed. We
tied up and all went ashore to try, but with no success. I rang the
lockkeeper, but the number in the canal guide gave no reply. I rang
the lockkeeper at 19th lock; he promised to contact his colleague. And
sure enough, within fifteen minutes his van arrived. He listened to
our story, then asked me to join him in making a rush at it. He seemed
to sit slightly on top of the beam, which may have lifted the
underside of the gate somewhat, and between the two of us we got the
gate closed and then fully open, where five people had failed before.
The keeper said that we might have pushed the stone out of the way.
There is certainly no truth in the rumour that my weight had anything
to do with it: I attribute our success more to intelligence and
strength.

Suddenly the day seemed more cheerful, and we journeyed uneventfully
from 16th to 17th Lock, beyond which we saw a handful of fishermen in
a stretch teeming with fish. At 18th Lock we stopped to prepare lunch
and were puzzled by noises coming from our left. Eventually we decided
that we were listening to the public address system and the noise of
engines from Mondello Park motor-racing circuit. It was a bit like the
buzz of distant bees: not so loud as to be offensive. I prepared
garlic bread and got the vegetables ready for roasting while the
others went for a walk.

On their return, we headed off again. Ian steered for quite a long
way, getting the hang of not letting the boat get too far off course
and not having to swing wildly to correct it. He even steered through
two narrow bridges. Anne took over as we passed the Blackwood Feeder
and steered into Robertstown. We initially tied off 45M but were asked
to move to the quay as the Eustace was giving tours that day. We met
Mick Clinton and Ilona Delargy, in a narrowboat for the weekend with
some friends; they were having lunch in the old hotel with an English
couple who had brought their own narrowboat over and hope to be here
for about 18 months. I got a look at the outside of the two
narrowboats, again recognising features I'd heard of in
uk.rec.waterways.

After lunch, we pottered slowly into Lowtown. We met a tiny boat
coming out: apart from the Eustace, it was only the third boat we'd
seen moving that weekend.

The keeper worked us through the lock. While we were going down, with
the wonderful clear water showing the base of the lock, I was talking
to the keeper, Tony was talking to someone else on the bank and Anne
was talking to the boat's former owner, who happened to go by just
then. Chatty place, the canal.

Then we moored and unloaded. Tony and Isolde, who were driving back to
Dublin, dropped Anne off in Sallins to retrieve her car and give the
boat keys to Eddie Brunker, who is going to fit a new battery for us;
Ian, the dog and I headed home via Vicarstown, the village on the
Barrow line where we hope to attend a rally next weekend. I wanted to
check out the facilities: the village seems to have two pubs and no
shops, so we'll have to stock up before we get there.

Another weekend, another trip, another system to learn about.

bjg