THE LIFE OF RI LEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND
Chapter Nine - Winter Sports

Editor's Note: Because of shortage of space, this feature was omitted from our last issue. However, given the subject of this chapter, the delay places it in the most appropriate issue.

Winter on Spike Island was a child's paradise. When the snows came and the canal froze over it was heaven just to be alive. The landscape as far as the eye could see would be covered in a thick, white blanket and the ice in the canal was often over three feet thick. Some winters were particularly good and these conditions would last for months on end, though I'm sure the adults thought differently about it all; but then they always do.

To see, at the crack of dawn, acres upon acres of untrammled snow where, if the imagination were allowed to run free (and with me, it usually did), no man had set foot, was a rare and wondrous sight to behold. It was Robinson Crusoe in black and white. It was an artist's canvas, as yet untouched, and I was the paintbrush. It was the moon in all its silent mystery. It was Greenland, it was Iceland, Alaska, the North Pole! Round the corner would soon appear a sled with the finest team of huskies in all creation and Jack London would be at the reins. It was Heaven!

To be the first to leave footprints in this virgin landscape was the most convincing motivational factor in rising early. At first light I would jump into my pants, pull on my hobnail-boots, throw on a shirt and jacket, and away I would go to seek adventure. The temperature might be hovering at ten below zero but that could never deter me. No child feels the cold when he is having fun; adults do, for some strange reason. Odd creatures, adults. They think of the silliest things, and always at the weirdest moments. They waste so much time on trifles such as rugging up for the cold, or searching for hankies, or putting snow-covers on their shoes, and other such nonsense. And the way they complain about the temperature! Heavens above! I never knew a temperature was such a terrible thing until I heard adults talking about it.

Anyway, off I would trek across the Arctic wastes searching for polar bears and killer whales, and in the process drawing fantastic shapes with my footprints in the snow. One time. I recall, I even displayed my new-found skill in writing and "wrote" my name and address and even our railway company-owned telephone number in the snow. I wrote it so well, in fact, that even today, if the weather is just right, you can still see the faint outlines if the snow falls in the right way.

On top of all this adventure there was the added thrill of the canal itself. What a great invention it was! Can you imagine six miles of ice, thirty or so feet across? It had to be the world's biggest slide, or even bigger than that! Mike and I became pretty adept at propelling ourselves for ever, and a few yards extra, first from one side of the canal, then back again. And then, when our equilibriums had sorted themselves out, along the length of the canal.

The hobnail boots we wore, we discovered, were an essential part of our equipment. In fact, when we took a running start from the canal bank and leapt upon the ice, we moved so fast that the only way to stop was if we ran into the canal bank, or fell over; whichever came first.

On one occasion I was with a school chum of mine and he clocked me at doing no less than 175 miles an hour. I know this to be true because he used a stop-watch which he had found on a dump, and which, he said, only he knew how it worked.

But the greatest thrills of all, the most fantastic adventures a boy could have, were when the grown-ups decided that the canal had been frozen long enough. This came about as a result of the barges which plied up and down the canal being frozen in. So solid was the ice that they were unable to move, and even in danger of having their sides caved in as the pressure from the ice increased. One barge, a pal of mine told me, had been stuck there for hundreds of years, and he had it on good authority from a friend of his who never told a lie.

The word would go out. Hands were needed to save the situation. Dad, since he was the lock-keeper, seemed always to be in charge. He would organise for the "ice-breaker" to be brought up from the river, manoeuvred through the locks, and moored at the beginning of the canal. He would gather a team of about ten men, all of whom were over eight feet tall and six feet across the shoulders and together they would take on the mighty task of freeing the canal of its frozen blockade.

The "ice-breaker" was, in essence, a longboat made of stout, heavy timbers. Amidships there stood a mast the size of a sturdy tree from which dangled a dozen or so ropes; very much like a maypole. It was a two horse-power contraption in the real sense of the word in that it was towed along the canal by two great Clydesdales, one on each bank.

At the bow the men would stow their knapsacks containing their sandwiches and flasks of tea - they would be needed before the day was out. At the stern there was a seat for the tiller-man, although how he could steer in solid ice was beyond my feeble comprehension. On either side of the tiller-man Mike and I, by the grace of Dad, presumably to toughen us up, were allowed to sit as the great campaigns got under way.

Thus it would be, year after year, depending of course on the weather. Mike and I would be up before the lark on such a day, hoping that Dad would not change his mind about our being able to go on the great ice-breaking trek. My mind harkens back to the last time we made the journey:

Morning had come trudgingly over the horizon, steeling itself for another weary day. The air was crisp, there was frost on the ground. The doughty men who were to do the job were crowded around a glowing brazier which Dad had thoughtfully lit for them. They stamped their feet and padded their arms about their bodies to ward off the winter chills and talked in hushed voices like men before a battle. And battle it was to be, at least for them. For Mike and me it was the prelude to the day we had dreamed about since the previous winter. It was a day which, we knew from past experience, would provide unparalleled excitement and activity.

A last mug of billy-tea, a final deep draw on the ragged end of a cigarette, and everyone was ready. Someone shovelled snow on the fire and it died a painful, hissing death. The men moved off, their boots crunching in the snow. Mike and I took up the rear of the column and tried to walk as tough as they did. One by one the men climbed aboard the "ice-breaker", taking up their allotted positions. When everyone had settled himself down Mike and I climbed aboard and sat in the sternsheets. At last the adventure was about to begin.

Two men, leading the horses, inched the boat to the edge of the ice as the great beasts snorted plumes of vapour in the cold morning air. On a command from Dad the men stood up as one, in order not to capsize the boat, and took hold of the dangling ropes attached to the mast. The two horses were led forward again and the tow-ropes tightened bringing the boat hard up against the ice. One man jumped out on to the ice while another handed him a long-handled pick. Thus armed, the man on the ice began to cleave a vee shape in the ice rim. He hacked away at it until enough room had been cleared to make way for the bows to fit and then he hopped back on board again.

Now the moment we had been waiting so anxiously for had arrived. Dad suddenly barked out an order and the men began to heave on the ropes, rocking the boat from side to side. Over to starboard, over to port, as the gunwhales came perilously close to the water. The brave Clydesdales pulled with all their considerable might but the ice did not give. The men rocked harder, shouting "Heave! Ho! Heave! Ho!" just like pirates on the Spanish Main.

In years to come the majestic Clydesdales would be replaced by tractors, thus catapulting Spike Island into the twentieth century, to borrow Mike's delightful expression. But for now the great beasts were required to do it under their own steam, as it were.

They pulled and pulled, exhorted by their handlers to greater efforts. The boat groaned under the strain. The ice gave off high-pitched screams in protest but it still did not yield. The pick was put to use again to cut a deeper wedge into the ice and once again the horses took the strain. The men resumed their rocking, heaving and ho-ing, shouting and cursing, as we two passengers looked on with delight.

The screams of the ice changed pitch. Now there was an unmistakable cracking sound. And then another. All at once the ice gave up the fight. The boat surged forward, propelled by the sturdy Clydesdales. The men rocked the boat more vigorously now that a gap had been created. The ice was losing fast. As it split, cracks began to race ahead of the boat accompanied by the weirdest sounds. They were no longer screams, they were no longer cracking sounds; the only way to describe them, the only way I can say is, well, heck, they sounded like a long, wailing ZZZZZZZZZZIIIITTHHER!

Now the ice was splitting and zzzzzzzzzziiiitthhering all over the place. The boat was rocking wildly. Mike and I were sailors on the high seas in search of the white whale. Captain Ahab, with his leg miraculously intact for this voyage, was standing imperiously by the sternsheets barking out orders to his crew.

"Thar she blows!" I cried, as a huge slab of ice lifted above the surface, looking for all the world to me like Moby Dick himself breaching. Then, as the whale was harpooned and stowed safely in the hold, we became a naval destroyer searching the bitter seas of the North Atlantic for German submarines. We knew the U-Boats hunted in what they called wolf-packs. We would have to keep a sharp look-out for them.

"There's a periscope!" Mike called out to me. "And another!" God! there were hundreds of them now. "Ready the depth-charges," Captain Mike shouted to me. "All ready, Captain," says I, saluting. Varumth! Varumth! Varumth! Up in the air they went, and then plunged beneath the sea. Five seconds, ten seconds, and BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Wow! We got the lot of them that day. What a glorious battle. What great accuracy with those depth-charges. It was a pity there were no survivors, but war is war, and that's the truth.

On we went up the canal to other adventures. We'd packed some sandwiches, or, jam butties, to give them their proper name, and these we now devoured in order to gather enough energy for whatever next was to come. There were so many brave deeds done by us that day; it would be impossible to relate them all now. Suffice is to say that because of our gallant efforts the world was made safe again. England's enemies from times past to times present had all been committed to the deep. Sleep well fair citizens for we two brave sailors will watch over you.

Ah, 'twas a glorious day. A memorable winter!

[Another Editor's Note: We have no photographs of the Sankey's ice-breakers. Three have been recorded - the one above at Spike Island, another at Sankey Bridges, and a third among the hulks sunk at Newton Common. If anyone has a picture of any of these craft, please get in touch, as we would like a copy for our archives.]

Views of the Sankey in Winter

Above: Harry Arnold's picture of Widnes Locks in February 1962, just before the official closure of the Sankey in 1963 - Frank Riley's home, the Lock Cottage, stands isolated on Spike Island.

Below: The Bridge Cottage on the western end of Fiddlers Ferry in the winter of 1900/ 01, photographed by Benjamin Hobson. The narrow track through the ice may have just been made by the Widnes ice-breaking crew.

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