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Appendices
- Trip Reports 2007.
Shackerstone
07 Festival, Saturday 1st
and Sunday 2nd September.
Report
by Roger Hutchinson
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| It
was my best birthday for years.
Despite floods, illness, family responsibilities
and the vagaries of fate upon humans,
I had actually made it at last to
a working narrow boat festival aboard
Nuneaton & Brighton.
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The
early sun shone diamond bright
transforming the peaceful Sunday
morning scene of treble breasted
working boats as far as the eye
could see into a riot of colour.
President’s
boiler was getting a stoking far
behind and this black ragged pall
was added to the white smoke from
the forest of brass banded chimneys,
being polished furiously, from
ranges that fried legions of porcine
rashers. This heady aroma from
sizzling pans had a counterpoint
in the tart odour of Brasso
and honest to goodness
coal smoke but it was the smell
of bacon got a grip on the appetites
all sentient beings downwind despite
how long they had propped up the
bar in the beer tent the previous
night.
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Trying
to capture the vibrant image from
the cabin top of Brighton,
the many colours demarking the angular
shapes of all the boats superstructures,
appeared to me like an old saturated
colour Kodak Ecktachrome transparency.
My digital camera took its best
shot of the vibrant scene and to
seized the moment, I climbed down
into the hold and gave the gramophone
that was perched upon sacks of coal,
a quick wind. I swung the chromed
arm across – engaging the
clockwork motor and placed the new
steel needle in the speeding grove.
The usual sharp introduction of
spit, crackle and hiss disappear
almost behind the spare accompaniment
of clicking fingers and the rich
vocal tones of Larry Cross
and his Canadians strong
arming out:
"Sixteen Tons – and
what do you get, Another day older
and deeper in debt….."
Immediately
a passer-by stops with his dripping
Labrador and growing grin and then
a curious woman with two children
from the other direction, to be
joined by a little old lady, in
the traditional |
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sense,
in her Sunday best and smile to beat
the sun. Its just an old gramophone
with a disparate worn collection of
novelty 78’s from car boots,
but as the sound is created from acoustically
amplified vibrations it has a special
quality the beguiles the ears before
the hearer even recognises what it
is. I answer the usual questions politely
to increasing numbers when all I wanted
to do was groove to the song and watch
the colourful video of the real world
on a sunny Sunday morning.
The showing of the boats is one side
of the same coin, the other being
the boats on the move and carrying
cargo. Our Memorandum and Articles
state that we wish to educate the
public in the skills, the purpose
of the trust and the history of the
canals and its people and that’s
why we were in Shackerstone
- and raise a bit of dosh
and new members. Despite being moored
firmly to the bank the activity of
presenting the boats to interested
and interesting people can be very
satisfying and enjoyable especially
when it’s not raining! |
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A
week earlier, Dave, Teri and
I had left Braunstone and
had a leisurely four day trip
to the end of the Ashby
Canal, winding at the
terminus at Snarestone
and returning to the festival
site at Shackerstone
lunchtime on Thursday (read Dave’s
trip report). Stuart Hooper,
the canal master for the event
led us to the spot by the towpath
and helped us breast and moor
up. He is the owner of a ‘blue
top’ boat that still trades
fuel necessities to canal people
and is a canny operator with a
dry sense of humour. He assembled
a diverse fleet of working boats
with little fuss or bother to
create a visually interesting
combination of vessels for those
viewing from the towpath. So many
working boats turned up that some
had to moor further down adjacent
to the preserved railway station.
(Left:
Trevor Maggs & Stuart Hooper.
Pic: Dave Davies)
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In
the warm late afternoon sunshine,
Stuart, Dave and I shared
a ‘wee dram’ and a natter
on the back of Brighton
while I polished the
old car horn that is currently our
only warning device. It took some
rubbing and plenty of Brasso
but as I started to buff up the
blackened instrument we were amazed
at its transformation of gleaming
brass and looked the dog’s
testicles - all it needed was a
chain now. |
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BW operatives were out making a smoky
racket with strimmers, mowers and
shredders decimating the hedge opposite
and increasing the towpath width to
two metres. I had asked this to be
done as our public access steps to
Brighton on the bank could be an obstruction
when it got crowded. The downside
was that now there was a thick carpet
of damp fragmented vegetation all
over the towpath and was easily tracked
aboard. |
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Supping
a beer outside the Rising
Sun while waiting to meet
up with Dave’s mum
who was providing transport back
to Leicester for him and Teri
we greeted a chap who was carrying
guitar cases and he told us of the
forthcoming folk gig there that
night. As I was now on my own as
poor Andy couldn’t make it
due to sudden health problems I
asked if he needed a disco between
acts as this would give me something
to do that night. On hearing about
my ancient deck and platters that
could be easily amplified through
a microphone and the excellent PA
system he tentatively agreed. |
| After
seeing Dave and Teri off
half buried under their luggage in
his mum’s car I returned to
the marquee behind the pub with my
DJ’s gear where they were waiting
for an audience to form Steve
proved to be an accomplished and versatile
performer and he was accompanied by
his equally proficient daughter on
violin and percussion. The
Rising Sun knowing the score
from the previous festivals had really
geared up for this coming weekend
and this was a practice run-through
to make sure they could milk the situation
for maximum profit. The lighting rig
hadn’t arrived yet so I used
my powerful LED bike torch to dimly
illuminate Vickie and Steve
(known as ‘Kosmyk’)
on the small |
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| stage.
The audience grew, the beer was drunk
and spirits rose and after five numbers
that had people dancing and lustily
singing the choruses, they took a
break. As I set up the gear, Steve
introduced me as "‘Er,
this is Roger and he’s going
to play some of his records."
Not quite the introduction I
had in mind but making up lost ground
I told them about my wife finding
my Davy Crocket hat while helping
to clear my late father’s house
last year and thinking it was a dead
rat, screamed. Despite not having
seen it for nigh on 50 years I grabbed
it and stuck on me head where it sat
like a furry pimple more - rat than
racoon! The needle hit the grove,
I thrust the mic into the hole at
the back of the gramophone and the
1950’s song about the KIng
of the Wild Frontier by Larry
Cross hit the bemused audience
like discovering a long-lost photo
of themselves as a laughing care-free
youngster. Giving no quarter, I whipped
off the disc and neatly replaced it
with Jack Grose and his Metropole
Players and their ‘Let’s
All Sing Like The Birdies Sing’
from 1924 that equally surprised them
as they all knew the words to this
one too! I did another three slots
and finished off the night with the
lesser know version of ‘Teddy
Bears Picnic’ by posh pixy-voiced
Anne Stephens –
"Cos they’re tired
little teddy bears…." |
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The
long day and late night was followed
by a long lie-in Nuneaton’s
cabin where I planned the days many
chores and only one breathless soul
to do it. The previous afternoon
Dave and I had put the
staircase in position and moved
the nearest bags of coal forward
but there was a lot of sorting out,
tidying and cleaning to do to make
the boats presentable. I made a
start on the day’s objectives
but it was slow going when suddenly
Trust council member Pete Clutterbuck
strolled into view and immediately
got stuck in and within three hours
‘Our Girls’ were transformed
from well-worn working boats into
a living heritage experience. After
Pete left, I spent a quiet
afternoon tweaking the overall visual
arrangement for |
maximum
eye-candy effect like scrubbing
the decorative ropes on the elum
and replacing some of the flowers
in Teri’s floral
arrangement on the cabin roof whilst
nattering to Martin, NBT
Member, who was breasted up to
Nuneaton in
his motor. A swift pint that evening
in the Rising Sun was
followed by a curry and an early
night with a distant bass line from
a band performing in the festival
beer tent as a lullaby.
I awoke early and was soon making
Saturday morning smoke and steam
and attractive breakfast smells.
It was bright and I got busy making
the brasses sparkle along with a
host of others attacking their display
metal with gusto and brasso. With
the minutes ticking by, I threw
the contents of the heaped ashcan
into a hole in the hedge only to
realise that there was a fierce
draft and it blew the fine ash straight
in my face and deposited the rest
of it onto the clean and shiny cabins
like snow. Bugger! |
Our
Chairman Graham and partner
Linda arrived heavily burdened
with supplies and our display panels,
carried from the car park at the far
end of the site. We had hardly had
time to say hello then it was a rush
of last minute touches and a quick
sweep up to rid the cabin and hold
of grass and ash. The festival opened
at 10am and no sooner had we put out
the ‘Welcome Aboard’ signs
then our first guest arrived to the
clockwork Laurel & Hardy
intro of the ‘Dance of the
Cuckoos’ by those Rhythm
Rascals.
Inside the back cabin, all signs of
modernity had been stowed away, and
the polished blue enamelled kettle
contently steamed on the range, accompanied
by a dish |
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| of
shiny red potatoes that appeared to
be ready put in the oven presenting
a cosy domestic vision of a another
world. Although barely alight, we
each stationed ourselves by the range
for Health and Safety reasons, of
course we could choose not light it
but the back cabin transforms from
a dead museum set into a convincing
living environment when the range
glows and the kettle boils. This certainly
has a magical effect on most visitors
already overwhelmed by the rich material
detail of the fixtures and fittings
and texture of the paintwork. Children
are just in awe as if they had been
transported to some fantastic abode
where a Hobbit dwelt – some
of them must think to themselves –
‘that music was really strange
and now this!’ While in this
stunned state they are immediately
told what they would have been responsible
for if they were living on this boat
70 years ago and what life they would
have led as part of a boatman’s
family on the cut and on the constant
move, so little chance to go to school.
They try out the sleeping arrangements,
squealing in delight at the thought
of sleeping in such a nice place and
then the ride is over, the turnstile
clicks and it’s time for the
next group to enter the magical world
of the back cabin. |
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On
the towpath I noticed a succession
of well-equipped photographers taking
a shot of the stern of Brighton
and Teri’s flower arrangement
where sat Dingo, Martin’s
dog, who looked cool and acted
out the part of "I’m
the boss around here while the master
is away" that had them snapping
away.
We
rotated the three roles of ‘front
of house’, ‘presenting
the back cabin’ or ‘making
tea and sandwiches’ that kept
us fully preoccupied. A quick break
on the festival site or talking to
our fellow working boat friends or
document the event with photos were
done with the knowledge that the absence
would leave the other two to deal
with a growing queue. We all shook
the donations tin and I thought I
was getting weaker as the day proceeded
as it was getting harder to lift up! |
John
Fevyer had run off a number
of copies of 'The Steerer’
to hand out in return
for a suggested donation of £3
to help attract new members but
the demographic make-up of the crowd
was more young families out for
the day with no specific interest
in what was on offer. So we didn’t
give many away in this manner, it
was more a case of exchanging our
mag with other organisation’s
efforts and to people over that
week who showed an interest in joining.
This means there are still copies
for Windmill End and
Black Country Museum
which are much more canal specific
than Shackerstone.
As
for the Shackerstone Festival
itself, it was in reality an assembly
of all things vintage mechanical
from the Railway, Canal, Road, and
Air, in the form of fly-overs, with
a supporting crust of fun fair,
food, beer and craft tents, many
local charities running tombola
stalls and the usual trade stalls.
The only thing missing from the
field was traction engines which
was due to past events disagreement
in organisation.
It appeared to me that everyone
showing at the festival kept pretty
much to their clique of classic
cars, steam trains or working boats
because that’s how it is.
The Ashby Canal Society
operated the swing bridge
across the canal near the railway
station of the Battlefield line
to provide a short cut for the public.
This consisted of a pontoon swung
back and forth on lines and I saw
two quite elderly ladies handling
the so called ‘swing bridge’
with some hesitation and trepidation,
fortunately no one is allowed on
it whilst it is in motion! It was
very popular and they raised a good
amount in donations for their restoration
scheme. One big fly in the ointment
plagued all the boaters both days
and this was an encampment of Mad
Max wannabes. But instead of being
Road Warriors on stylish junk battle
wagons they were far more like Garden
Warriors as they drove strangely
mutated petrol lawnmowers that bounced,
swerved and racing around their
fenced off camp. Their roaring exhausts
were brutal in the extreme as they
tore about their bit of a stubble
field. The funny thing was that
the best view was from the towpath
and that was enveloped in a blinding
brown dust cloud raised by the constant
procession of these giant ugly insect-like
machines and their oblivious drivers
upwind. The Cheese Boat
(long queue) and the Fudge Boat
(amazing fudge!!!) were choking
and half deafened but had no choice
to continue trading where they were
as there were no towpath moorings
nearby. |
The
Spitfire from the Battle
of Britain Flight then chose
to fly over while I was trying to
get back to the boats through this
blighted area, holding a cloth over
my face to keep out the dodgy particulates.
The memorable sound of the plane
had people stop in mid-step on the
narrow towpath and looked up through
the brown murk and thus presenting
me with even a harder path to exit
the cloud. As I scrambled for clean
air, one part of me was screaming
"IN COMING!!!"–
Panic! The clean effortless power
of the tuned Merlin engine growling
like George Saunders on bennies,
cut through the hideous tinplate
mower din |
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as
the brief soaring form wove a vapour
web, racing back and forth above the
village.
I was pleasantly knackered as the
day ended with the flow of curious
souls slowing to a dribble and then
none. We indolently pondered the options
for an evening meal and eventually
settled on the old canal pub The
Globe built over the Snarestone
tunnel where we had a jolly
feast and Graham and Linda later
dropped me off back at the boats and
then headed off for their overnight
accommodation on the bank. |
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It
was dark when I arrived back at
the boats and I was faced with a
decision was it going to be a good
book that was building to a exciting
climax or a long walk in the dark
to the Beer Tent where I could hear
another band’s audible bass
line. I erred towards my surprisingly
cosy sleeping bag in the end, as
another full day was promised and
to enhance it was my 54th birthday
and did I want to experience it
tired with a hangover? No. Been
there, done that.
Deep asleep, a pleasant innocuous
dream about messing about on boats
suddenly took a threatening change
in direction took on much darker
dimensions.
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I
was trapped in the dark cabin while
unseen people stole the boats by
pulling them along down rapids,
bashing them into rocks and other
boats, with lots of cursing and
screams.
I surfaced hot and panting and opened
an eye, wrestled my arms out of
the bag and illuminated my watch
face to show 3.15am. Silence, the
boat still, nothing stirring, all
I can see is a narrow slot of dark
sky in the hatchway. It’s
a chilly night but I’m warm
and snug and began to think I dreamt
it all and so drifted back off to
sleep only to be started awake by
the noise of what seemed like an
army of tipsy ravers giggling, swearing
and shushing each other as they
attempt to negotiate the sterns
of Brighton and Nuneaton
to reach Martin’s
vessel. It turned out that they
were the second wave of exiles from
the shut and darkened beer tent
to reach Martin’s boat as
his hold was the only one converted
and thus provide a convivial space
to continue the party whether he
like it not not!. Somehow this new
influx caused those already there
to leave and eventually they all
climbed back to the bank and their
own vessels very slowly for the
next hour. |
Bright
eyed and bushy tailed I emerged
and noting the weird offering of
a soggy sausage roll left on the
hatch of the motor, I considered
Martin’s state of
being and so was reasonably quiet
as I went about preparing for another
day. Graham & Linda
arrived promptly, armed with a carpet
sweeper and a rake and proceeded
to remove the acumination of vegetable
matter inside and out.
Our
world weary information boards were
placed on the towpath side of the
cratch of Brighton so viewers could
absorb the info without distraction.
The old photos of working boats
taken by a former member many years
ago are without any explanation
(other than ‘Working Boats’)
or photographer credits but a number
of former boatmen were delighted
to see themselves and their friends
in the water stained prints. Sadly,
I missed the chap, an ex-member,
who took the photos and who spoke
to Graham, apparently miffed
that his name wasn’t displayed
with them. Otherwise I would have
placated him with my new idea for
new interpretation panels that would
far more informative and give credit
where credit was due.
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Hopefully
we can rebuild bridges on this specific
matter, as I have observed many
people showing intense interest
them and we do need original prints
or negatives to reproduce them on
new panels. |
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Birthdays
don’t last as long as when I
was a youngster and we soon found
ourselves clearing the cabin roofs
and tying the side sheets. The objective
was to carrying all the personal gear
across the nearby swing bridge to
Graham’s car before
they towed the pontoon back up to
the Snarestone terminus.
Running through the new 'Captain’s
checklist' to make sure I didn’t
forget anything important it was a
race against time as the disappearing
swing bridge bell began its playground
pealing. The gods smiled upon us and
we made it across the water just in
time to go home as we were tired little
teddy bears…. |
| Postscript
- On reflection not much of this could
have happened so smoothly and stress
free if it wasn’t for Andy
Belton’s efforts in building
the two staircases. They instilled
confidence due to their solidity and
facilitated access to Brighton
so readily that they will have paid
for themselves within the next year
in extra donations. They are also
brilliant as a stand for the bowl
and draining board! Roger
Hutchinson
September 07
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The
Narrow Boat Trust is a charity registered
in England under number: 288243
The
Registered Office of the Narrow Boat Trust
is at:
23 Redway Drive, TWICKENHAM TW2 7NT
email:
webmaster@narrowboattrust.org
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