When an Englishman used to live in cramped conditions, he had the right saying at the ready to complain about the distance between his own four walls: It's too narrow to swing a cat. However, this did not mean that a screeching four-legged friend should be flung around in circles; cat meant the infamous "cat o' nine tails", the whip that used to ensure discipline and order on sailing warships and whose (literally drastic) effect is still familiar even to land people today - for example from such colourful Hollywood films as "Mutiny on the Bounty".
But times have changed: There are now boat people on the island who not only voluntarily take on such movement bottlenecks "at home", but enjoy them - and who, with dry humour (and a certain pride), even regard it as an honour if there is "no room for the cat" ...
We're talking about the ever-growing fan community of narrowboats: those elongated barges that (to the unsuspecting) look as if an old railway carriage had simply been left in the water with a lot of faith in God. Colourfully painted, cherished, well-maintained and quaintly furnished (as far as the space below deck allows), these unmistakable boats with their robust iron hulls look back on a long and varied history.
And it is this very special charm that ensures that not only are more and more narrows being lovingly restored, but even newly built - as houseboats and residential boats or for the numerous charter fleets that have bases in all corners of the British Isles' extensive waterway network. Anyone who comes on board can experience - at a relaxed pace - a piece of the long-gone traditions of the river boatmen on the historic canals. Time to tell a little of this story.
In the first half of the 18th century, the English Midlands were still a peaceful idyll of green hills and rose-covered villages. There was hardly any overland freight traffic, and the inland rivers were used, but they were unconnected and therefore often dead ends that led nowhere. But appearances were deceptive, as industrialisation began to take hold: Manufactories and factories sprang up, inventions saved time, steam provided the power. More and more raw materials were needed faster and faster, and the finished products had to reach the markets.
But while other European countries had long since discovered mass transport on artificial waterways with modern locks (the Canal du Midi in the south of France had already been opened in 1681, for example), the infrastructure on the island was still reminiscent of the Middle Ages in many areas. No wonder that aspiring factory owners and aristocrats became impatient.
But the man who was to make their wishes come true was already waiting in the wings: James Brindley, an engineer of humble origins but endowed with great talent (and the necessary stubbornness), began work on his "Grand Cross" in 1759: navigable canals with locks, aqueducts and tunnels were to criss-cross the landscape and connect the country's major seaports. At the centre of the Grand Cross would be the sprawling city of Birmingham, the industrial centre of the country. The Bridgewater Canal made a start in 1761 and others were completed in quick succession.
"Narrow" means narrow, in this case very narrow. To be precise, a real narrowboat can measure 7 feet between the rustic rubbing strakes. This is because the usable width of the first canals was 2.13 metres - or rather the width of their lock gates and bridge troughs. A standard that was later retained for reasons of standardisation (with a few exceptions).
The limited width made perfect sense at the beginning of the narrowboat story: the boats were largely pulled by horses; and while the powerful Shire cold-blooded horses were not overtaxed by the small size of the boats of around 25 tonnes when fully loaded, they were easier to steer thanks to their slim shape. In addition, it was never planned for people to live on board permanently - let alone families.
While thenarrows While the first boats were built entirely of wood, they later switched to composite construction and finally to all-iron construction. Although their width was fixed, the length reached 20 metres and more in later times, of which the small cabin with the open cockpit at the stern made up the smallest part. From here, the narrowboat was and still is equipped with a long tiller - theelum - steered. In front of this was the open cargo hold on the old workboats, which was protected by a long, tent-like tarpaulin (for bulk goods such as coal) or was completely closed and fitted with large side hatches.
The crew consisted of two people; in addition to the helmsman, a second man led the tow horse along the towpath on the bank. In tunnels without a path, however, muscle power was required: lying backwards on the load, the two men "walked" in unison along the tunnel wall, moving the heavy boat step by step towards the other end. This laborious and dirty work in the dark was called legging.
The new means of transport fanned the flaring industrial revolution like a breath of fresh air, a veritable "canal rush" set in, with one technical masterpiece following the next. The ever-expanding network of waterways (eventually reaching a length of more than 7,000 kilometres) became the circulatory system of the economic boom, and narrowboat fleets now provided the vital exchange of raw materials and goods on its "veins".
But then came the shock: in 1821, Robert Stephenson's Stockton and Darlington Railway, the first railway line in England, was opened. You didn't have to be a clairvoyant to realise that the narrowboat with its harnessed, faithful draught horse would soon be consigned to the scrapheap of industrialisation.
The decline lasted a good century and the narrows struggled to survive; they were able to retain niches, particularly in areas that did not initially appear attractive enough for railway development or in the transport of cheap bulk goods such as coal and iron ore. But the boatmen were hit hard: Freight rates fell and meant that skippers could no longer afford to house their families in a house on land. Wives and children moved on board, and although there was no opportunity for schooling for them and most grew up without ever being able to read and write, the emergency measure provided additional free labour on board.
The tiny cabin in the rear, barely six square metres in size, became their permanent home. People lived, cooked and slept there all year round. A stove provided warmth. Wooden surfaces were painted with dream castles and blooming roses, and bobbin lace curtains created an illusion of privacy. In a world of ash and soot, meticulous attention was paid to cleanliness - everything had to shine and sparkle.
The life of privation led to the families developing their own strong sense of pride and the simple boatmen soon saw themselves as a close-knit community that had hardly any social contact with "those on the shore". This is what they called all those who did not live in their narrow world just above water level.
The final end came with the lorry in the first half of the last century; before that, steam tugs pulling several boats and finally the diesel engine had been used to make ends meet. But at some point, the end of the economic viability was reached - not only of the boats, but also of the insufficiently dimensioned canals. Thousands of kilometres were closed and fell into oblivion. The coal dust evaporated and nature returned.
It was only after the Second World War that a movement slowly began to take shape, pushing for the preservation of the cultural heritage and recognising tourism and local recreation as an opportunity to revive and restore the waterways. With great success: today, excursionists and walkers use the riverside paths all over the country, a large number of associations are dedicated to the preservation of technology and traditions (even draught horses are once again allowed to demonstrate their strength) - and on the quaint canals of the British Isles, no other type of boat is seen more often than the narrowboat
