Meandering round Manchester

The intricate Rylands Library faced by today's glass and steel

What an absorbing place this Manchester is. The ostentatiously wealthy parade in Deansgate, razzing their Maseratis, Lambos and BMWs noisily up the road, past stylish shoppers and glossy shops. A few streets away the massive Arndale teems with crowds while a confusion of trams runs every which way, hooting noisily to clear the errant jaywalker from their path.

And still the re-building goes on

And everywhere, ultra modern glass and steel buildings stand cheek-by-jowl – sometimes very awkwardly – with stone 19th century grandeur and crumbling brick.
Manchester seems to change constantly. I recall the centre was being pulled apart for the Metrolink tramway when we first visited – it's being pulled around again for another new tram line now.

New high rise offices are appearing all the time: the massive IRA bomb of 1996 that destroyed a vast area around the Arndale centre is often claimed as the catalyst for the present wave of development. It may have started there but by now, like Himalayan Balsam, it's everywhere.

The ever changing face of Manchester

Indeed, glamorous glass buildings easily blind one to the rest of the city's architecture but look a little longer and it really is remarkable. Glorious, largely Victorian era, public buildings like the huge Royal Exchange, the Gothic extravagance of the Town Hall or the splendid John Rylands Library stand among banks, hotels, churches all in varied styles and fascinating layers of detail.

Exquisite interior of St Mary's catholic church

Lavish detail on even the most humble frontage

What is clear is that the architects and builders of old were building forever: the abundance of detail and sheer, painstaking craftsmanship is evident on even the most humble office front. Today's buildings seem to be all about 'now' - full of flash and instant eye-appeal. I wonder if the majority will even still be around in a hundred years, let alone admired.
This trip we wandered further afield to the Northern Quarter, a place of small streets and more intimate but no less interesting buildings that is now home to independent bars, clubs and creative businesses.

The facade of the old fishmarket surrounds new development

The sad side of this vibrant and bustling city is all too obvious as well – the numbers of beggars and rough sleepers to be seen around the centre is truly depressing. The gap between the haves and have-nots is very, very obvious.

Moored in Manchester

The Beetham Tower in the city centre

Here we are moored in central Manchester, looking out at the bright lights of the improbably proportioned 47 stories of Beetham Tower from our spot where the world's first industrial canal met the world's first passenger railway at the site of the Roman fort that marked the beginnings of Manchester.
Quite a historic spot and rightly designated an 'urban heritage park' though, in truth, history barely gets a walk-on part in an area that, despite its few bars and restaurants, seems just a little shabby compared to the nearby city centre.

Joining the queue for the daily Plank Lane bridge opening

It's been an easy run here – no locks on this canal - punctuated only by an enforced stop at Plank Lane lift bridge, a busy bridge which had failed to lift properly and was waiting repair, the queue of boats either side being let through each day at 2pm for a few minutes.
On the gloriously sunny Bank Holiday Monday, the watery procession became quite a local tourist attraction with a small crowd watching our progress through.
The whole of this length of canal is flanked by derelict mine workings which have been reworked into nature reserves and lakes. It has become a fantastic resource for local people in what is still a pretty deprived area and was teeeming with walkers, runners, cyclists and people simply hanging out in the sun.
Disturbingly, among the hangers-out we spotted a shambling drunk with can of Stella, Staffie, equally drunk female partner – and a couple of air rifles in a gun-bag over his shoulder. I'm not sure he was actually doing anything illegal but it was not a nice sight.
Last time we were in Leigh we saw a youth riding a high powered motorbike along the towpath and a couple of days later a youth riding a high powered motorbike along the towpath was killed when he crashed into a bridge. Leigh is not my favourite place!
At a bridge in the middle of Leigh the Leeds Liverpool Canal Leigh branch becomes the Bridgewater Canal in a seamless transition of ownership from C&RT to Peel Holdings marked only by a modest sign. There's a handy Aldi right by the canal here, too, (new I think) so that was a 'must moor' moment.

Tucked up for the night by the Swing Aqueduct

Re-stocked, we plodded on looking for a mooring, caught in that trap between it being too early to stop and then too late to be travelling but still unable to find a suitable spot. By now we were in the seedy edge of Manchester but finally we tucked into a handy spot on the moorings for the Barton Swing Aqueduct.

Modern Manchester is steadily moving outwards

Today we pottered on into Manchester along a route familiar from previous trips, past the massive bulk of the Man U ground, the high level Metrolink tramway and, across the Ship Canal as it now ran beside us, the modern towers of glamorous Salford's Media City.

The graffiti saturated lock onto the Ship Canal

Here along the canal was still the familiar graffiti ridden squalor, though the towpath itself has been much improved, but modern Manchester is steadily eating into the dereliction of the old as a mass of building sites testify.
Tomorrow it's time to tour Manchester.

The road from Wigan Pier

A last look back at the final Wigan lock

Goodbye Wigan Flight; we won't be seeing you for a while – a long while, I hope. As a lady boater going the other way said: "the Wigan Flight and I are old enemies." A sentiment we share after our fourth traverse of the 21 locks.
To be fair, it wasn't such a bad day. The forecast rain held off and, indeed, the sun shone almost too fiercely at times. We were on our own (only once have we done this flight in partnership with another boat) but we are a skilled team: I lockwheel; Mrs B brings the boat in and out and, after coming in, pulls her gate shut and works the paddles on her side.

The view that says one hour done but three more to go

We are, as I said, razor sharp and but for the fact that we were following a somewhat slow moving pair in front, would have been down in rather less than the four and a half hours it took us. It wasn't their fault they were slow: one was single handed so they strapped the two boats together to free up an extra lock operative.
Ah, but the Wigan doesn't take kindly to such tricks: some lock gates don't open fully so a pair of boats struggle to get in together and the devilish Lock 75 (is this the worst on the system?) has a final trick - should you open both bottom gates fully, you'll need a passing rugby team to haul them shut again. Open them fully? I barely managed to open them at all!
A lock-keeper was on duty but his main duty was clearing out the ever present weed and keeping lock pounds full. He helped us through one lock but for about 17 of the remaining 20 we had to do the full George – fill them; go in, empty them and go out. In other words, very few boats were coming up the locks: its reputation goes before it.
A shame; it's not that bad (well, actually, it is) but the locals are largely friendly and you get considerable job satisfaction at the end of it all. With just a tad more maintenance, though, it could be so much better.
Anyway, we finished the flight and turned onto the Leigh branch of the canal where two final locks are waiting like a couple of after dinner mints. Despatched, in each case, before a fascinated audience of families and small children (BTW in sufficient numbers these are admirable lock beam operators) we were finally free of locks for the next few days.
I'd been wearing my old pedometer for the occasion and gave it a check: it reckoned I'd walked 7.5 miles. It certainly felt like it!

Some serious walking the plank tonight

But the views across the flooded mine workings are fine

The Leigh branch is surrounded by old mine workings, now water filled nature reserves. The views are fine; the moorings are not. We hung ourselves a few feet from the shallow bankside and settled down to enjoy a suitable post Wigan feast, prepared in double quick time by Mrs B – pork fillet followed by the traditional lockwheeler's dessert – steamed treacle pudding. And a bottle of red wine to dull the aches of weary muscles.

Wigan volcano erupts? No, just clouds

A hard day on the towpath

Bandoliered with bottles and only 85 more miles to go

I suspect a few of you have done a 5km charity run in your time. Now just imagine doing 40 of them in succession, non-stop, through the day and night.
Crazy? Well that's what the ultra marathon runners on the towpath today were doing. They had started from Liverpool at six a.m. and were aiming to be in Leeds, 127 miles away sometime tomorrow.
Bandoliered with water bottles and with running vest pockets brimful of energy bars, sweeties and any other carb filled goodies, some were still running well at 40+ miles while others looked fit to quit but probably wouldn't. Good luck to you all, you completely barking mad buggers!

Still running smoothly at the 45 mile point

Compared with theirs, my struggles on the Johnson's Hill Locks were minor. They were still hard work, though – worse than I remember. Some gates wouldn't open, others wouldn't shut.
At the bottom we met a very unfortunate single hander coming up. He'd climbed the Wigan flight the day before; gone early to bed, knackered and woken up today to find his bike, brass roof vents and windlass all stolen. He didn't discover the last of these until arriving at the Johnsons locks - so he had to walk to the boatyard at the top, buy a new one and walk back down to his boat. Poor bloke.

Passing the canal festival at Botany Bay mill

After the locks we passed the Botany Bay Canal Festival but, with no traditional boats to admire, decided to press on past motorway noise plagued Chorley, finally stopping at Adlington – described in the guide as 'a small industrialised town'. Precisely.
By now the craving for fish & chips was three days old. Last night we found the village chip shop had closed down; tonight we found the local chippie didn't open on Saturday nights. I settled for f&c from the local all-purpose kebab, burger, pizza and f&c parlour. My stomach wishes I hadn't: a grey piece of fish in a leathern batter and oven chips which tasted as though they'd been re-heated several times since leaving McCains.

A fine pike sadly found dead in the water

Speaking of fish, Mrs B hooked a magnificent pike – sadly it was a dead one which she landed on the bank and showed a little gaggle of fascinated small children its terrible teeth. Nightmares tonight then. Only joking, dear.
Tomorrow the 21 Wigan locks. Thunder and lightning is forecast. Bring it on!
 (I should add for the benefit of single-handers and others dreading Wigan that there's a Facebook group 'The Wigan Flight Crew' who will help to pair up boats and can even turn up to help you through the flight. What a great bunch.)

Bye bye Blackburn

Everything looks better on a sunny day

First the weather report: today was a good day – by northern standards anyway. The sun shone, though the wind made it too chilly for tee shirts (unless you're northern and have developed that weather resistant skin which even young girls have these days).
Anyway it was a brief run from our country stop into the urban sprawl of Blackburn, a place that's as bad as its name. The canalside is the usual post-industrial mess of dereliction while the canal itself has a scum of floating plastic bottles and food cartons, and under the surface lurks a formidable quantity of weed mingled with semi-sunk rubbish.

Vast piles of weed hauled out at each lock

The weed can't be helped; it's summer, weed grows. At each lock are heaped vast piles that canal workers have hauled out yet there's still enough to foul the prop repeatedly. We spent 15 minutes in one of the locks heaving a tangled mass of weed and the remains of a large zipped holdall from round our prop.
I'm sure there are nice bits of Blackburn but they aren't round the locks. At one we encountered a local lad, spaced out on something considerably stronger than the can of lager he was holding. Mumbling incoherently, he offered to help – and I had to haul him back from falling in the lock. We left him sitting on a lock beam, drifting into a world that was probably nicer than the one he actually lived in.
Further on a couple were walking a muscular Staffie wearing a muzzle on a harness you could restrain a disturbed adult with. He kept taking hungry looks at Brian who – aware of the muzzle and harness – stood on the boat roof and barked back.

The 'bungalow garden' with buzz cut lawn and no flowers

Leaving Blackburn behind I got a chance to indulge in one of my favourite boating pastimes – back garden viewing. It's a bit like nosing in your neighbour's living room window but even better.

A lovely and lively canalside garden

Back gardens are fascinating, from the 'bungalow gardens' with grass buzz cut to a green glow and not a plant in sight to elaborate waterside concoctions created by someone who watched too many Ground Force episodes. No collections of gnomes on this stretch though.

The 'I don't actually like the canal' garden

This afternoon we ran through countryside that, while lacking the Pennine dramas, was still pretty in the sunshine, to finish up at the Johnson Hill Locks - a seven step prequel to the upcoming Wigan flight.

We're in Lancashire so it must be raining

Even rubbish has its uses

And it is! Raining. If the stretch of canal west from Burnley wasn't dreary enough then the weather has added its own dark charms today. It's been dank, damp and finally downright wet.
I'm grumbling two days in a row, which I try not to do but, frankly, I would say the dozen miles we've done today show the canal at its least endearing. Out of Burnley it's unloved and unkempt, passing decrepit old factories, derelict sites and scrappy housing. As for the canal, that's treacly with silt, weed and rubbish. And all to the backdrop of that M65.

Pendle Hill last month

The weather makes such a difference to your spirits - six weeks ago we sat moored in glorious sunshine looking out at Pendle Hill. Today we were huddled inside, supping soup, crouched round the back cabin stove at the same spot, with Pendle shrouded in misty gloom.

And Pendle Hill today

And on to Church - not to worship but perhaps to pray for some change in fortune for this little town whose run-down, tumbledown canalside seems to sum up everything that has changed about northern England in the last hundred years. It's so sad to see sliding into irreversible ruin the once wonderful warehouse building with its large arch under which barges loaded cargo.

Slipping slowly into ruin, the fine warehouse at Church

From Church – halfway spot on the canal – the waterway twists and turns along the contour line of steep sided hills, crossing over the M65 at onre point (that must have taken some doing) before weaving past Rishton and closer to Blackburn.
That's not a town whose six locks you want to tackle at night in the rain so we shoved ourselves as close as possible to the bank (which wasn't very close) and battened down the hatches.
Tomorrow it should be brighter - and so should our moods.

But there's nowt like rainwater for washing with

Down in the dumps

A huge and empty mill, one of many along the canal here

Back in the long gone days when I was a motoring hack I went to the launch of the Austin Princess, a vision of ugliness that was yet another nail in the coffin of the British motor industry.
A witty fellow hack summed it up with pithy precision: "It looks like the chap who designed the front and the chap who designed the back weren't talking to each other".
I could say that about the Leeds Liverpool Canal. It is, as they say in football, a game of two halves. And I can't help but think that the chap who designed the Yorkshire side and the one who designed the Lancashire side where we are now weren't on speaking terms.
The Yorkshire side runs through glorious countryside along almost all its route; it actually seems to avoid centres of industry (of which there are plenty). It challenges the boater with staircase locks and swing bridges.
Across the county border, the Lancashire side seems to gravitate towards industry; purposefully aim itself through the nastiest of it. And it squirms and twists about to keep locks to the minimum - saving them all up for Wigan at the end.

An oasis of charm among the industry

So one drops down from the Barrowford locks with a bump. Metaphorically. Gone are the distant views of green hills. Instead the canal is trapped between the now semi derelict Victorian warehouses of Nelson that harbour mechanics' workshops, tile depots, builders' yards and merely pigeons, and pressing it on the other side - out of sight but never out of earshot the M65 motorway.
It's a sorry mess and even the cheery waves of the brightly dressed Asian ladies on the towpath can't do much to lift the mood. Only a few days ago we were up in those glorious Pennines.
There is just one spot where Nelson lifts its head and smiles back to the boater: rows of terraced houses along cobbled streets drop down to a tree edged mooring spot, with a church spire beyond. It looks unchanged from the days when the canal began, and probably is - apart from the inevitable double glazed windows.
I had moored and walked through the streets there to find a supermarket on a previous trip: they teemed with little Asian kids out on the roads playing games of cricket. Just as kids had been doing for a hundred years.
Down at the water's edge, an elderly householder in a union jack tee-shirt toiled in the immaculate garden of his small house, where another ensign flew on a flagpole. I'm not sure he felt comfortable with the changes he'd seen. If that's so, it's a shame.

Burnley, fine old buildings can't hide the depression

And now we are in Burnley, a town whose whole purpose for existence disappeared with the death of its cotton weaving industry. In the town centre fine old Victorian stone buildings are interspersed with the worst of 1970s concrete-and-cladding development. It's not a pretty sight.
Tomorrow we will be on the edge of Blackburn and then comes Chorley and then Wigan. As I said, this is a canal of two halves.

The only way is down

Barnoldswick Square and, under canvas, the beach

We've reached the summit of the Leeds Liverpool Canal after a short, enjoyable day's cruise and a longer, even more enjoyable evening.
We climbed through the final three, Greenberfield Locks in the company of a laid-back Lancashire couple on their first hire boat holiday and enjoying every minute of it. Their cheery company made up for an encounter with one of those Admiral of the Fleet types who insisted on bossing everyone around at the lock as if we were novice numpties.
We left our cheery chums behind to stop at Barnoldswick for some emergency food shopping. The town doesn't promise much from the canal - all factory frontages and houses with England flags – but what a surprise it proved. The centre is a delight; it seems to be a magnet for retro-cum-junk shops (we found three) and there's a cobbled market square lined with cafes that was quite continental on a sunny day. It also held a huge marquee which turned out to be 'Barnoldswick Beach', full of specially laid seaside sand and beach activities for this miles-from-the-coast town. What a clever idea!
A mile beyond the town we moored up at Salterforth - right in front of our locking buddies once more. We were both planning to head to the canalside Anchor Inn for a meal but first 'northern daughter' had to run back along the towpath to retrieve her car. For someone who can manage 15 miles of trail running, a mere five up a flat towpath was a mere jog.

The Anchor's amazing stalactites

And so to the pub. It's renowned for the stalactites in the old cellar so we took a look and they are just impossibly spectacular. A mass of pencil thin lime strings dangle from ceiling virtually to the floor like something out of an Indiana Jones movie.
It was going to be a simple pub meal but Thursday is quiz night; Alan and Julie joined us and – in between rounds of drinks – we racked up high enough scores in the quiz rounds to come third.
Today, remarkably hangover free, we waved them goodbye as they headed back to base while we sat and looked at the rain which has suddenly dispatched the sun. Well, I guess we are in Lancashire now and it always rains here.

Saying goodbye to our boating buddies

Back on the curly-wurlies

Coming up Bank Newton with fine distant views

We are back in our favourite location, the contour-squirming, 'curly wurlies' where the canal meets the Pennine Way and the views are breathtaking in any direction you happen to look.
Our 'northern daughter' joined us at Skipton for a few days' boating – little did she know she was in for some hefty lockwork and a few strongarm swingbridges as well to get us up from Skipton to where we are now. Tee hee!

They told me it would be a relaxing break

We haven't rushed – who would or could in the scorchio weather we've had these last few days. We spent last night in the pretty village of Gargrave, planning to catch a bus back to Skipton to retrieve daughter's car. Its due time of 16.56 arrived..and passed. Twenty minutes later it still hadn't come - and the 'text when your bus is due' service just kept telling us it was imminent, so we abandoned and hurried to the train station instead. Outbound by boat had taken three hours. Returning on the train took nine minutes.
This morning we set off up the remaining Gargrave locks, unfortunately still trailing the same slowcoach CRT workboat we'd followed yesterday. Seemingly it was headed for the top of the next flight, the six Bank Newton locks where the top lock's ground paddles needed repair. Accompanied by half the CRT workforce, by the look of things. We had three driving the workboat, then three more come to do the actual work and a couple of manager types as well to do whatever manager types do. And, let's just say, nothing seemed to be happening at a rush.
The view from the Bank Newton locks is superb, looking out at Flasby Fell in the distance. Just three weeks ago we went walking up there on a hike out from Skipton.
We were followed along the locks by a young family walking the towpath: mum, dad, infant and toddler in pushchair. Eventually, when we moored they caught up with us. Seems they live in Bradford and come out every month or so to walk a new stretch of the canal - they started in Leeds and aim to walk the whole way to Liverpool! Hopefully they'll manage it before their six year old starts saying 'do we have to?'.

We are on the Pennine Way once again

Once moored it was time for more car retrieval: this time a walk back along the Pennine Way to Gargrave then a drive to East Marton just up the canal and finally a stroll back along the towpath to the boat. An enjoyable walk on a glorious day. And if I hadn't forgotten my wallet we could have had a pint en route too.

Midsummer or midwinter?

Damart thermals - just right for August

It might be the middle of August but if this place had a factory outlet to the towpath we'd have been queueing up for some thermals. Yesterday morning was horribly damp, windy and so, so cold.
We were at the bottom of the Bingley Locks, having made a short hop from our overnight halt outside (and inside) The Fisherman's at Dowley Gap. It was a pretty decent pub; rated number two by Tripadvisor out of 52 in Bingley, for what that's worth. We enjoyed ample and tasty steak and ale pies, then managed to squeeze down a shared sticky toffee pudding before retiring, bloated boaters.

But next day ended in sunshine over the Dales

The previous day had been easy in miles but hard in effort; we despatched two double staircase locks and our nemesis, the three locker at Field where we experienced our near disaster a few days earlier. Doing them on our own was a lot harder work than the previous day when we'd had the aid of lock-keepers on some and a fellow lock traveller, a boat mover delivering his craft to Preston. Mind you, he was even more happy to have us helping him than we were to have a partner through the locks.
In a short stop at Saltaire we wandered some of the close-packed back streets and chatted to a local resident who'd been born in his house and lived there ever since.
His mother was a former housemaid 'in service' but when war broke out in 1939 she moved to work in the cotton mills at Saltaire – like so many women the coming of war and the departure of men to fight created opportunities that changed their lives. It certainly did in this case: four years after joining the Salt workforce the former housemaid bought her own house in Saltaire for £350 - something she couldn't have dreamed of as a domestic servant.
At Bingley we saw the end of the canal's staircases  No end to the swing bridges, though – at times they've been coming at one every few hundred yards. But it was easier going this time we found ourselves in a four boat convoy so - in a very slow motion version of Olympic team pursuit cycling - each of us took a turn opening a bridge then dropped to the back of the line.

You need to be slim for these Dales gates

Last night, a few miles short of Skipton we celebrated being back in the wonderful Dales with a stiff walk up to the highest ground to watch the setting sun illuminate the Aire valley below in tones of light and shade. And it wasn't even cold.

This makes narrowboating on the L&L seem easy

This morning we watched as two pairs of canoeists were getting their inflatable boats ready for the next stage of a charity paddle, though that sounds much too light-hearted a vowel for a trip from Liverpool to Goole; the 97 miles of the L&L Canal followed by 30 more on the Aire&Calder, all in ten days. They can portage round the 90 odd locks of the L&L but dealing with those giant ones on the Aire will prove a real challenge. Still, it's all in a very good cause.

The end – and the beginning

Facing back again; ready to head west once more

The last blog entry was from Skipton and we are now in Leeds. A lot has happened in between. But the biggest news is that while we are at the end of our journey across the Leeds Liverpool Canal, we are also at the beginning. Because, daft as it may sound, we are going to head back again!So, having been moored in Leeds for a couple of days facing east, we left today after one last night here facing west. Why have we turned around? Well a brief foray onto the Aire & Calder reminded us that its giant locks can be tiresome (once you've got over the initial jaw drop at the sheer size of them) and the waterways themselves – long, wide and straight across flat countryside – are not the most thrilling. And they only lead to the River Trent and then in a few days, the crowded Midlands canals.So we've turned around to enjoy the Pennines and the delights of Gargrave and Skipton once more.

The fine view from the Five Rise locks

But what happened between Skipton and Leeds? Well, to cut a long story short here's a brief summary – it's a tale of swingbridges and staircases with a some history thrown in.
Swingbridges: there are loads of them on the way out of Skipton. I think we did 13 in the six miles to Keighley. Mostly in the rain. Most are just over farm tracks and footpaths but a few are over roads. I think our best effort there was holding up 30+ rush hour motorists on one at Keighley.
Staircases: everyone's heard of the Bingley Five Rise. We've been on it three times now and it's still as spectacular as ever. But that's just one staircase; there are seven more on the trip into Leeds. Most of the three-lock ones have lock-keepers but one doesn't and that's where we had our Disaster.

Whoops!

We were dropping down from the top lock of the Field staircase, with another boat when we snagged on something under water on the lock side. In the time it took Mrs B to spot the problem, alert me and me to close the paddles to stop the water flow we had tipped to about 25 degrees, to the accompaniment of smashing glassware and plates as they tumbled out of the cupboards. Without doubt our single scariest moment in boating.
We've also experienced plenty of history along the route. The canal runs through Saltaire, the spot where Victorian entrepreneur mill owner and philanthropist Sir Titus Salt built a 'model village' away from the smoke and disease of Bradford to house employees at his new mill – the largest factory IN THE WORLD at the time. It produced 18 miles - yes miles - of cloth a day! Today it's a desirable township and the redundant mill reborn as a magnificent mix of cafes, bookshops and a gallery of local lad David Hockney's works

Hockney's latest iPad generated art on show at Saltaire

Before Saltaire we also took a side trip on the Keighley & Worth Valley steam railway (location of The Railway Children and many more period dramas) to visit Haworth, famous home of the Brontës. A steeply sloping cobbled hill brings visitors past lines of the sort of outlets you'd expect to appeal to literati tourists (ethical cafes, antiquarian bookshops, artisan gifts etc) before reaching the gloomy rectory where the family lived. It's hardly remote these days but on a wet, gloomy day the period atmosphere of the village and looming moors was easy to imagine.

The long cobbled climb to Haworth

Speaking of moors, we had a last climb up into the heights before the scenery faded down into flatness and walked up to Ilkley Moor of 'baht 'at' (which translates as 'without a hat' apparently) to gaze one final – or so we thought then – time at the stunning vistas.
Then into Leeds, a city that is an enjoyable mix of old and new. The regenerated waterfront is terrific; its bustling cafes, bars and restaurants clear evidence to its affluence and affluence that comes from the flashy commercial blocks that line the waterway - Direct Line, First Direct, KPMG, Asda and so on.

Wonderful Italianate architecture - for factory chimneys

The centre of the city remains largely a tribute to the Victorian manufacturers and mill owners who created its wealth with magnificent commercial and municipal buildings boasting the most intricate stone and brick detailing. None is finer than the Italianate dust extraction towers of the Tower Works, where steel pins for the textile industry were made. The factory is gone; the magnificent towers, thankfully survive.

The River Aire flows under the station to meet the canal

The canal gives into the River Aire in the middle of the city – indeed the river flows right under the railway station to join it. The moorings, in the remains of old wharves, are wonderfully central but there aren't enough really and the water level in the area drops alarmingly during the day often leaving moorers aground. Things are better than they were on our last visit but Leeds is another city centre which embraces its waterway but pays little attention to the boaters it brings.
Tonight we are back on the edge of the city, having gone through the 'badlands', a five mile stretch where, legend has it, the scrotes appear from the undergrowth to rape and pillage innocent boaters. But only on sunny afternoons. Fortunately we saw no-one more alarming than large lady joggers in pink lycra and speeding cyclists.