Me and my dad walked the length of the Irwell for Charity. Here's how it went.
Day 1 - Setting Off
The source of the Irwell is very underwhelming, there's no plaque, no announcement of it's existence, just a pipe from a hill, a trickle of water looking lost in the vast Bacup countryside. Soon we were following that trickle, the trickle became a stream, and the stream flowed through a gated community. Unsure of our next move, we entered.
"Hey, hey," within minutes someone was calling us. We paused on the street, turned and looked around. An old man appeared wanting to know why we were there. We explained it was an accident, that we were following the Irwell and had wandered through his gate. He wasn't happy though. His brow twisted. He stared over his slippered feet, then long and hard at us, as though we were withholding the truth. He said he clocked us while eating his Sunday dinner. Then he walked us across the street to another gate, a big one, still looking annoyed as he keyed in a password and staggered back, watching the gate open. We apologised and thanked him for letting us through. then he began talking again.
"I got your faces in CCTV anyway," he said. "You're lucky too," we didn't answer him, we walked on with our heads down. "My neighbour normally comes out," still we said nothing. "He has a big shotgun," silence... "He has a big dog too..."
With the fear of dogs and shotguns on our minds, we walked on, sticking to the Irwell as much as possible, battling through stinging nettles, climbing over barbed-wire fences, crossing farm fields and public footpaths. Eventually we came to a country road. We said goodbye to the farmland and to a jolly group of pigs, the to the Irwell, watching as it disappeared below the road, Google mapping it to keep on track.
When the river reappeared, it was much wider. We followed a road through Rawtenstall which ran parallel to it. Not yet feeling tired, we ploughed on through Edenfield, Irwell Vale and Stubbins, before looping around towards Ramsbottom. We arrived at Nuttall Park and set up camp in darkness. Later we'd come to regret this as we awoke in discomfort, realising our tent was pitched on a rocky, rough slope. An uncomfortable sleep to say the least.
Day 2 - The Wrong Path
After a long night and barely any sleep, we packed up our stuff and set off trying to follow the Irwell. We walked through the ruins of an old mill until it's crumbling wall ended, forcing us to take a dirt slope filled with trees and prickly plants. the higher we climbed/slipped about like idiots, the more dense the forest became. Eventually, we reached the top hoping to find a footpath, but there was nothing, just walls, bushes and nettles.
Two hours of trekking wasted, we returned to the river now tired, scratched, and covered in mud. Stubbornly we continued to navigate the difficult route, working our way along slippery rocks and mini waterfalls. Soon the rocks ended. There wasn't much to stand on now, any further and we'd be ankle-deep in water. We paused thinking about our next move. I wanted to cut our losses, to turn back, but my dad decided to try and cross the river.
I thought this was a bad idea. I stood on a rock watching him remove his shoes and socks. Then he moved slowly and awkwardly into the river. He tried and failed twice. On the second attempt, about midway across, he was nearly swept away by the river's current. Sullenly he returned to the side and sat on a rock, his pants rolled over his knees, his eyes staring down the river.
"Maybe we cut our losses and turn back," he said.
Yeah, I thought, I was thinking the same thing 10 minutes ago.
Three and a half hours later, we were back where we'd camped the night before. All that time and energy wasted, and zero progress made. Laughing about our own stupidity, we set off in another direction crossing the Irwell by bridge and following a cobbled path into Summerseat, walking fast now to make back lost time. We crossed an old railroad track that ran alongside the Irwell and stayed with it, keeping our eyes on the river, trudging through wet, sludgy mud, farm life one side, railroad track on the other.
Then Burrs Country Park appeared, and after that, we found ourselves edge of Bury town centre. Not bad going, we thought, Bacup, Rawtenstall, Rammy and Bury complete. And it was only tea time.
But now our feet were hurting. In wet shoes we staggered on looking for somewhere to dry off, to change our socks and fix our feet, which were covered in sores and scratches. We entered Bury Baths limping, head to toe in mud, each carrying a big backpack and my dad holding a two-man tent underneath his arm. Obviously, we received strange looks, these looks got even stranger when my dad asked if there were any squash courts available.
"Need a ball and rackets?" they asked.
"No thanks," my dad said smiling, patting his backpack. "We brought our own."
We hadn't though, we had no intention of playing squash, all we were interested in was getting through to those hot showers.
Now clean and dry, we got a takeaway pizza and returned quickly to the Irwell. It was a dark, still night. We followed a cobbled path, barely talking, just walking peacefully, Irwell on the left, Radcliffe canal on the right. Looking at the stars and plodding on. happy to be on dry ground. Happy to be reaching another destination.
Just after 9pm, we rested at a pub in Radcliffe. My phone battery had died and the landlady kindly agreed to charge it for me. After giving my phone some juice, we went next door to a supermarket. Walking makes you hungry and it was time to eat again. We got bread and cheese and were followed closely by an over-enthusiastic security man. I guess we looked dodgy to him with our backpacks on and our unkempt appearance. But we had no intention of robbing his store. We just wanted supper and toothpaste. We named him Eagle Scout and suddenly he'd appear at the end of each aisle we were on, tracking our movement. It became too much. We looked at him, both bursting into simultaneous laughter.
"What was his problem?" I asked my dad afterwards.
"Just doing his duty," my dad said. "Just doing his duty."
That night we camped near a bridge called Shaky Johnny. My dad grew up in Radcliffe so he knew the area well. Learning from our mistake the night before, we picked a more comfortable spot, setting the tent on flat, soft ground, before lighting a fire and climbing into our sleeping bags. We watched the wood burn. We listened to it pop and crackle. For a while we stayed awake talking about the day's events, of course Eagle Scout came up, of course we were laughing again.
Day 3 - Rain, Rain, Rain
I wasn't sure of the time, but I awoke to rain pelting the tent. I looked up, the roof seemed lower than usual and droplets of condensation dripped on my face. I told my dad to wake up too, but he said nothing. Then I shuffled out of my sleeping bag, got my shoes and crawled outside. We had arrived in complete darkness so the place seemed different now, just trees and grey mist surrounding us, and the tent looked ready to collapse under the weight of the rain.
"We better go," I said reaching for my backpack. "This tent won't last much longer."
After packing away the tent as quickly as possible, we returned to the cobbled path between the river and the canal, the one we'd been following since leaving Bury. Walking became harder in the rain. Everything felt heavier and the for the first time, my body began to ache. We left Radcliffe and passed Little Lever. As the canal dried up, so did the cobbled path.
We were in the mud again, walking through woodland and forest, high up and looking down on the Irwell, losing it now and then as it turned a corner or became hidden by foliage. At one point we ended up following the river Croal by mistake. not for long though, we soon realised it was flowing in the wrong direction. We checked Google Maps to get back on track. We hadn't wandered far, the Irwell was still close by. In fact, the river Croal soon became the Irwell, swallowed up after flowing into its path.
Our next stop was Kearsley. Wet and hungry, we sat on the street eating fish and chips, staring at the rain and traffic in front of us. We then entered a pub and sat by a roaring fire. I charged my phone again and the landlady brought us coffee and hot chocolate. We told her about our walk and she seemed very interested. She enjoyed looking at the photographs we had taken along the way too, especially in Bacup where the Irwell was so small and stream-like.
I could've stayed by that fire all day. but we had to get going. We had lost three and a half hours the day before and agreed no camp until Broughton. As we were leaving, she brought us more coffee and hot chocolate in cardboard cups.
"On the house," she said. "To keep your warm."
We left the road and entered Ringley, a picturesque Postman-Pat-like village. "Thar she blows" we'd say spotting the Irwell again. And back on track we were, trekking through woodlands and long grass, my dad complaining about his wet feet, and me thinking what a wally, who comes on the Irwell walk wearing trainers anyway?
Most of our paths were slippery and muddy, but they kept us beside the Irwell which was great, no wandering off track or getting lost this time. We passed under the huge bridges and motorways, we went up and down hills and followed signs whenever possible.
Before long we had entered the district of Salford. This felt very surreal. It seemed only two minutes ago we were in Ringley, and now the river was much wider with proper, tarmacked walk-ways on either side, people jogging along, families strolling, mothers pushing prams, and the City's skyline in the distance, many buildings and skyscrapers.
We began talking about where to camp. We hadn't given much thought about our walk becoming urban. mostly we just pictured farmland and forest. But now we were out in the the open. Two wallys staggering towards Broughton.
It was dark when we appeared outside Broughton Baths. the temptation of another warm shower was too appealing, and my dad's feet were in bad shape, he needed somewhere to redress them with fresh plasters. We headed for the changing rooms and found a cubicle each. I laughed as my dad staggered and limped about in his shorts, getting funny looks from everyone as he moved towards the shower block like a 90-odd-year-old man with chronic piles.
Afterwards, wrapped in towels like two pampered princesses, we dressed in our muddy clothes again and returned to the street. It was getting late but we had no idea where to camp. We were hungry too. We decided to find somewhere to eat and dwell on it. This was our plan, but instead, we just seemed to walk on and on until we arrived at Salford University. Then the Irwell disappeared under a road. We Google Mapped it. it took twists and bends around Manchester City centre, annoyingly leading us back to Salford. Logic said to head for Salford Quays, to continue from there. But this wasn't a logical walk. We were following the river, we'd followed it so far and weren't stopping now. We bit the bullet. We took the convoluted route through Manchester and arrived in Castlefield towards midnight, surrounded by drunken Manchester United fans.
"Well," my dad said. "We either get out of here and find someplace to camp, or we take that hostel for the night."
I turned. I looked over my shoulder and saw the hostel behind me. then I looked at the roads and the traffic and the drunken fans, why are we even discussing this, I thought, "Let's take the hostel."
Day 4 - No More Irwell
I've never stayed in a hostel before. I expected it to be full of interesting travellers with stories to tell. instead I got clean-cut-looking student types, dressed in hippy clothes, probably bought on-line from Amazon. Apart from the odd person wearing a peace symbol or having a long beard, there was nothing hippy or interesting about them. They sat on their laptops and stared at their phones, one guy was even whipping up a chicken salad with baby potatoes and herbs, his long hair neatly ponytailed behind his head, his beard trimmed beyond perfection.
Strange. Where were the travellers? Where were the guys living off packet noodles and canned beans? I thought. What would Tom Sawyer think about these frauds? What would Huckleberry Finn think?
We didn't even get a lie in. In the morning the duty manager was on to us, and not a minute too soon. "We thought checkout was ten-thirty," I said turning on my bunk, having had the most blissful sleep. But when I sat up he was gone, knocking on more doors, reminding everyone that it was ten o'clock, and ten o'clock was checkout time.
We dressed quickly between two sets of bunk beds. One bunk had a bald, African man with an almighty snore, in another sat a Swedish chap looking hungover, pulling on his Manchester Untied top with his name across the back.
We checked out and went straight to the Irwell. With sun on my face, I looked up expecting to see clear blue skies. But there was much smog in the air, blocking the Manchester skyline. Now we'd travelled through wilderness and through cities. Without a doubt, the wilderness is better, cleaner, freer, more peaceful , less rules and regulations, less noise and confusion. If I took only one thing from this walk, it would be an appreciation for nature, its harshness and its beauty.
Returning to Salford we followed the Quays until our path dried up, trying to stay close to the river, mapping it by road. Now and again we'd be blocked by factories, sewage works and other things, which lengthened our route, pinning us to the roads.
On entering Eccles we enjoyed tea, jam and crumpets at Morrisons cafe. By now we were beginning to discuss ending the trip. Irlam and the Manchester Ship Canal were close by, and suddenly I felt deflated, for soon it would all be over.
Then my dad burst out laughing, almost spitting his tea everywhere. He pointed behind me. I turned to see a man dressed as Elvis, looking like his aged twin, packing away bananas, bacon and other goods.
"Jesus Christ," I Said.
"No," my dad said. "It's Elvis."
It was a while before we found the river again. We walked through streets with grey clouds above us, my dad moaning about being off track. I kept mapping it though, we were as close as could be. Then came Barton Bridge, and the Irwell hoved into view. This was it now. Nearly there.
The day had gone quiet but we didn't mind. We walked through fields seeing the Trafford Centre in the distance, passing old docking areas for boats and the AJ Bell Rugby stadium. We talked about doing another trip i n April, this time following the Ship Canal to the Mersey to the sea in Liverpool.
I wondered how long we'd keep walking for. It was as though we didn't want the trip to end. But the Irwell had become the Ship Canal now, and though we both kind of knew this, we kept on walking.
"How far to Irlam?" my dad asked a dog walker.
"You're in Irlam, mate," the man replied walking on.
There was a main road in the distance, we either continued on the canal or ended it there. anymore and we'd have been on another adventure. We decided to leave the rest until Easter. Our plan was to walk the Irwell and that's what we did. Now we sat down to watch the sunset, tired, hungry, ready for bed.
"We better go," my dad said. "Let's get a picture of you finishing the walk."
I took out my Camps International t-shirt, smiled as naturally as possible without looking too awkward, then held my t-shirt in the air.
"Still here, guys?"
It was the dog walker again.
"It's getting dark," he said. "That road will take you to Irlam."
Josh (Year 10)
