oscar
09-09-2007, 08:40 PM
Arrived in Bristol early Saturday morning after a pleasant six hour sail across the pond. The body wants only one thing, and I give in. The alarm goes off at 3pm, before the day is wasted, and I drag myself downstairs. The hotel is on a "go green" kick, like so much of the UK, and rents bicycles. They are free to air crew. Thank you. The gay French bellman makes triple sure that my helmet is on correctly and we, me and the first officer, set out on an afternoon bike ride.
Bristol, once a bustling trading and ship building port, now a successful modern historical city, is separated from the Bristol Channel by about five miles of river Avon. At the entrance of the city harbor is a lock which keeps the water inside at a constant level, outside the river rises and falls through its substantial tides. Some large ships could only enter or depart with the tide and the current just right. There are bridal paths, and a road. Our plan is to follow the road to the Bay and the town of, aptly named, Avonmouth. After an invigorating ride we arrive, only to find that the historic revival in Avonmouth has been cancelled. It is ironic to see that a place with such a great location is cut off from the water, separated from the Bay by acres of Toyota's, containers, and tall iron fences with an occasional opening with security shack...landlocked on the water. There is a depressed feel about the place. It's decidedly blue, the only apparent lifeline the jobs working the docks. Jobs that are getting farther and fewer between thanks to automated cranes and other "improvements". The only signs of life are clearly innebriated men on a patio outside a pub. As we ride past, one slurs:"Dead end road". Seconds later, where I thought the water would have been we run into the fence with the no trespassing signs.
The only way across the river is the M-5, their version of an interstate. Fortunately the bike gets a little more consideration in Europe, so after miraculously executing the slurred directions received on the way back past the pub we manage to find our way onto the big bridge, on a bike path welded along side it. On top I grasp the magnitude of the commercial operations here. Then it is a quick gravity fed run down into the next town, and a different world.
Pill is a small town, and there is a nature bike path offered back to Bristol. Signs along the path explain how the place used to be the home of many Pilot Cutters, and as many pubs. Soon we are riding through beautiful fields. There are endless growths of blackberries along our way and they are ripe, and sweet, incredibly sweet. A little box in the store at home is $4-$5 dollars, I often pay the price to taste the goodness with my morning yoghurt. Now I feel like I'm eating liquid gold by the handfull. Every half mile or so we stop and just pluck the big juicy berries from the side of the path. My hands are purple with dye, for no matter how careful I pick them, they are so loaded with juice that it is nigh impossible not to pop one or two of the tender bubbles.
As we arrive back in Bristol I notice there is a gaggle of sailboats waiting in the river to be locked through to the harbor. We cross the bridge and ride over to the lock. Watching the operation is almost as good as being part of it. Five boats are tied up inside and start their ascent to the harbor level. I've helped catch a line of a particulalry handsome yellow ketch and make small talk with the man on the back deck as he comes up. Turns out he's a builder, and points to his yard further up the harbor. He tells me of the Pilot Cutter they are building and invites me to visit the place. The inside lock doors open and they motor out, as we ride our bikes alongside the waters edge.
The yard is a dream. Wooden boats, new and old, of all ilk, every where. Then I see the most sexy underbody I've seen in a long time, my heart skips a beat. John proudly shows me "Mischief". It is incredible. And it is ironic to end up where I am standing, right as I am in (another) period in my life to maybe do just that.....build a boat. Bud McIntosh's "how to build a boat" is in my suitcase back at the hotel. John invites me to come back during the week when they are working on her. The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly. There are no "employees only" signs, no lawyers monitoring the liability situation. The only safety warning I notice is a friendly sign that states that "Visitors are welcome, but that a boatyard can be a dangerous place, so please be careful." or words to that extent. Common sense. Of course there are also the words written in black magic marker on the big band saw: "Please count fingers after use." Turns out John is a Series Landy owner too....a beautiful SII station wagon, with a safari roof and a solid frame and bulkhead, and a purring diesel. Man after my heart.
The next morning, as I sail back across the pond again, I decide I'll have to make it a point to visit Bristol more often. There is a lot of learning to be done there, and there are nice people willing to share their knowledge. I'm on the right track.
More on "Mischief" here:
http://www.pilotcutter.co.uk/mischief.html
http://www.woodenshoemusic.com/Resources/yellowchannelcutter.jpg
Bristol, once a bustling trading and ship building port, now a successful modern historical city, is separated from the Bristol Channel by about five miles of river Avon. At the entrance of the city harbor is a lock which keeps the water inside at a constant level, outside the river rises and falls through its substantial tides. Some large ships could only enter or depart with the tide and the current just right. There are bridal paths, and a road. Our plan is to follow the road to the Bay and the town of, aptly named, Avonmouth. After an invigorating ride we arrive, only to find that the historic revival in Avonmouth has been cancelled. It is ironic to see that a place with such a great location is cut off from the water, separated from the Bay by acres of Toyota's, containers, and tall iron fences with an occasional opening with security shack...landlocked on the water. There is a depressed feel about the place. It's decidedly blue, the only apparent lifeline the jobs working the docks. Jobs that are getting farther and fewer between thanks to automated cranes and other "improvements". The only signs of life are clearly innebriated men on a patio outside a pub. As we ride past, one slurs:"Dead end road". Seconds later, where I thought the water would have been we run into the fence with the no trespassing signs.
The only way across the river is the M-5, their version of an interstate. Fortunately the bike gets a little more consideration in Europe, so after miraculously executing the slurred directions received on the way back past the pub we manage to find our way onto the big bridge, on a bike path welded along side it. On top I grasp the magnitude of the commercial operations here. Then it is a quick gravity fed run down into the next town, and a different world.
Pill is a small town, and there is a nature bike path offered back to Bristol. Signs along the path explain how the place used to be the home of many Pilot Cutters, and as many pubs. Soon we are riding through beautiful fields. There are endless growths of blackberries along our way and they are ripe, and sweet, incredibly sweet. A little box in the store at home is $4-$5 dollars, I often pay the price to taste the goodness with my morning yoghurt. Now I feel like I'm eating liquid gold by the handfull. Every half mile or so we stop and just pluck the big juicy berries from the side of the path. My hands are purple with dye, for no matter how careful I pick them, they are so loaded with juice that it is nigh impossible not to pop one or two of the tender bubbles.
As we arrive back in Bristol I notice there is a gaggle of sailboats waiting in the river to be locked through to the harbor. We cross the bridge and ride over to the lock. Watching the operation is almost as good as being part of it. Five boats are tied up inside and start their ascent to the harbor level. I've helped catch a line of a particulalry handsome yellow ketch and make small talk with the man on the back deck as he comes up. Turns out he's a builder, and points to his yard further up the harbor. He tells me of the Pilot Cutter they are building and invites me to visit the place. The inside lock doors open and they motor out, as we ride our bikes alongside the waters edge.
The yard is a dream. Wooden boats, new and old, of all ilk, every where. Then I see the most sexy underbody I've seen in a long time, my heart skips a beat. John proudly shows me "Mischief". It is incredible. And it is ironic to end up where I am standing, right as I am in (another) period in my life to maybe do just that.....build a boat. Bud McIntosh's "how to build a boat" is in my suitcase back at the hotel. John invites me to come back during the week when they are working on her. The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly. There are no "employees only" signs, no lawyers monitoring the liability situation. The only safety warning I notice is a friendly sign that states that "Visitors are welcome, but that a boatyard can be a dangerous place, so please be careful." or words to that extent. Common sense. Of course there are also the words written in black magic marker on the big band saw: "Please count fingers after use." Turns out John is a Series Landy owner too....a beautiful SII station wagon, with a safari roof and a solid frame and bulkhead, and a purring diesel. Man after my heart.
The next morning, as I sail back across the pond again, I decide I'll have to make it a point to visit Bristol more often. There is a lot of learning to be done there, and there are nice people willing to share their knowledge. I'm on the right track.
More on "Mischief" here:
http://www.pilotcutter.co.uk/mischief.html
http://www.woodenshoemusic.com/Resources/yellowchannelcutter.jpg