Many of the navvies who dug this canal from thick Lancashire mud weren’t locals—or even English. They came from Ireland, crossing the sea with empty pockets, strong backs, and heads full of stories. And in the dark, sucking mud, they left many things behind.

Broken beer bottles.
Worn-out shovels.
And the Dobhar-Chu.

The Irish called it Dobhar-Chu—the Water Hound, the Otter King. It swam the canal’s black waters before dawn, sleek and swift, and hungry. Fish, birds, even small deer—it took them all. And it grew. Stronger. Wilder. What might it have become, given time?

But time ran out. The canal was finished. The Irish navvies left, taking their stories with them.

And the Dobhar-Chu began to shrink. Without the tales that fed it, its power drained away.

Even so, if you walk the towpath in the hush of early morning, you might catch a glimpse—a shadow gliding through the water, the shape of an otter, the color of a hound. And in its dark eyes, the last glimmer of old Irish magic.