I was the first one of my kind on this stretch of the water road. The others thought I had always been here, but in reality, I was only installed a few days before my brother. Our sisters were added about a week after that. But we’ve all been here about 236 years. They keep replacing our skeletons, but our essence remains right where we have always been. We have stood here for longer than most memories last.
I wake most days from the groan of my heavy hinges, usually when someone pushes or pulls on my single arm, after twisting my mouth open to allow water to spill from the gaping void. Sometimes, they forget to twist my mouth closed again and just let the paddle fall with a great clank that could wake the dead.
For over two centuries I’ve held back more water than you could drink in a lifetime. It’s not glamorous work, but someone has to keep the canals moving. That job sits with my siblings and I, four old oak lock gates on the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. We watch over a lock that has had many names. We have kept it and all that travel through it, safe since 1790.
We work in tandem to guard these antiquated waters. I stand between two worlds: the stillness above and the restless pull below. Every day the water rises and falls against my back and every day I hold my ground.
The old days were tough, if I’m honest. The men and women who passed through were always in a hurry and they bashed their boats against my flesh day and night. It grew quieter during the wars, but they worked through even when bombs dropped around them like angry stars falling from the sky. After the last war, we all slowed down. But one by one, people started returning to use the water road. Not for industry and commerce, but for fun. They brought out their families. There was laughter, which was something I hadn’t heard much in years past.
I don’t ask for much. A bit of oil on the hinges and maybe a polite boater at least once or twice a day would go a long way. But every summer, as soon as the sun stays up longer than a few hours, chaos returns to my canal like clockwork.
Although the commotion is exhausting, I think I prefer these crazy days to the before times. The people who walk past me, perching on my arm for a rest, pushing me forward and back to let the modern boats move up and down the canal, are happier and kinder. I’ve heard some of them call it a community. I hear their conversations when they don’t think anyone can hear them. They share timeless myths passed down by wise old boatmen. They talk about where they’ve been and where they’re going.
Water whispers its secrets against my timbers and boatmen have told me the rest; history settles at my feet like silt. If you want to hear the truth of these canals, the real truth, you must stop before me and listen. That’s the only time you’ll hear it from someone who has nowhere else to go.
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I love this! It's such a beautiful thought, seeing life on the canal from the POV of a gate - one of its most enduring residents.
Of all the infrastructure on the canals, I think lock gates would be like the wise old men x