Its hardly surprising that in a movie like V for Vendetta I would recognise some of the filming locations. It begins with an establishing shot of London using the BT Tower, anyone that ever arrived in to London from the north recognises the BT Tower. Parliament Square, Trafalgar Square too, stand out.
But it’s when I notice details on less prominent streets that I get a little bit excited. Excited enough to stop the movie and examine the scene. This happened last night when I noticed a street that I am quite familiar with.
The police car raced along the streets to the crime scene, taking a corner hard on to a wide affluent looking crescent.
That was Cartwright Gardens! I was absolutely certain of it. A crescent shaped street near King’s Cross, I know it well. But I had to double check on street view.
Its close, but on near inspection, no cigar. The actual filming location was Thornhill Crescent. Very similar though, and not that far away.
So I was wrong. But I’m not always wrong about filming locations. Adjoining the aforementioned Cartwright Gardens is Leigh Street, the filming location for the exterior of Black Books.
Its an actual Book Shop. I bought a book about paper making in Bolton.
And not far from there, less than ten minutes walk, is North Gower Street, the filming location for Sherlock. A sandwich shop stands in for 221b Baker Street.
And I’ve seen film crews completely take over the streets here.
No idea what they were filming, but I saw these camped out in May 2024.
No. Dad bought a 1:76 scale model of a seven plank coal wagon, with which he has a deep and personal connection.
When ‘Dad’ was a nipper, there was a decommissioned coal mine where he would explore the derelict buildings, play in the abandoned marshalling yards, and stomp recklessly across the death trap slagheap. Would splash around with mates in the heavy metal stained orange waters that flowed from the mine nearby, and climb the felled floodlight towers for a laugh.
Family worked that mine, uncles, grandparents, his mother was born in its shadow. The lifeblood of our community in its day.
That coal mine was Hickleton Main Colliery. I had no choice but to buy it.
They call it the Follow Me Bridge because of the sound it makes when you cross it alone. Each step makes a sort of reverberating echo sound that for all the world sounds like someone is following you.
When you’re walking home from the pub late at night, or you’ve just got off the last train of the day on some dark damp wintery evening, and the town is all silent except for the low hum of the motorway in the distance. You’re alone, everyone else is home where they belong, tucked in beneath their cozy blanky, binge watching Netflix. Your own footsteps on the tarmac are the only sound to break the ambience until you reach the bridge.
It takes six or seven steps on the old steel framed bridge before you register it. The sound of another’s feet. You can’t help but look over your shoulder. No one is there.
You press on. The second set of feet follows on. You stop. Check again. You are definitely alone. Onward to home and safety, you pick up the pace. The followers feet match yours still. You halt again, ears pricked. Now there’s only one set of feet to be heard on the bridge, and they can’t be yours, your feet are planted firm.
A warm breath on the back of your neck, a long sigh in your ear. You don’t look back, but you know you’re still alone
Everyone knows the sound of the Follow Me Bridge, when they think they’re crossing it alone.
I chose Saturday 13th September as the day to visit the Manchester Museum of Transport for two reasons. Firstly, it had only recently become a place of interest when I learned that it houses the prototype Metrolink unit and I wanted to cross it off before I forgot about it. And secondly, we were visiting family in South Yorkshire that day, and living as we do in North Lancashire, the museum is a mere ten minutes out of our way. Roughly half the population of Manchester however, chose Saturday 13th September to visit the Manchester Museum of Transport because it was free entry. We are not the same.
The plan was to get up early, have Breakfast at Truck Haven and get to the museum in time for the doors opening at 10am. We achieved this, more or less, arriving only thirty minutes late [Insert Avanti West Coast joke here].
Not gonna lie. Parking was a problem. There is no visitor parking. And as mentioned above, it was free entry, so that may have attracted a lot of extra visitors. There is however a retail park just around the corner so it all worked out in the end.
None of that has anything to do with the main event. The Metrolink unit that I wanted to see.
When it opened, the Metrolink network was the first new tram system since the Dearne District in 1933, and it was very exciting at the time. A revolution.
Unit 1000
Unfortunately, Manchester Museum of Transport suffers the same space issue as Crich and many others. They don’t have the space to show off all of their excellent exhibits to the full, and the presentation of the Metrolink unit suffers because of it.
The Metrolink unit was set up parked in a mock tram stop and you could board it, explore, sit in the seats etc.
There is only half a unit though, these are two car units. A large mirror inside cleverly provided the illusion of the second half.
The cab is accessible, but it’s stripped of all equipment.
And that’s pretty much that. Space limitations prevent getting a good look at it. Being situated next to a wall, the undercarriage is concealed by the platform, and access to the other side is prevented by barriers and other exhibits.
It would have been nice to have a proper look at the thing. Had it been a whole unit, with a proper cab, and to walk round it, inspect the bogies and under floor equipment. But it is what it is.
The rest of the museum is worth the visit, and they operate vintage buses to connect with other museums in the area. There is also a proper tea room where they serve proper tea in a proper mug.
When I was a lad, I had a dream. The thing I wanted most. Not for fame or fortune, or even for world peace or anything like that. Not even for a kind word from that girl in class that I seem to remember that I quite liked at the time, and whose name would probably come back to me if I gave it a minute. No. What I wanted most was the ultimate railway exhibition experience.
I think I’d been to Crewe Open Day. It must have been about 1990. And my mind was blown by the number of trains that were concentrated in one location. But it wasn’t everything, my mind wasn’t quite blown enough, and I imagined how it would have been better had I curated the event myself.
What I wanted, was everything, in one place. More trains that you could ever possibly hope to ever see and appreciate in one day. Trains from across time and space. Trains from history, and trains from the other side of country. This weekend (1st August to 3rd August) that dream came true.
No. I didn’t curate my own rail event. Someone else curated the ultimate rail exhibition for me. That event, was called the Greatest Gathering, and I took a lot of pictures. Some of which I will share below.
Getting There
We drove to the event the night before and stayed at the Holiday Inn. I’ll have a bit of moan about that at the end – I have notes. The event was already sold out for the Friday and Saturday by the time I’d heard tickets were on sale, so I could only get tickets for the Sunday, so I thought we could make a weekend break of it in sunny Derby.
Transport was organized from the train station using vintage buses. Our Vehicle was a Volvo Plaxton B10m. Its always sobering when a particular make and model of a vehicle becomes considered to be vintage, or a museum piece. These buses were the buses I would catch to work not a quarter of a century ago. Ouch. Still, it was good to relive them.
The Event
There was quite literally too much to see. So I will just dump some of my better photos below and add a bit of commentary here and there.
Class 26 – Never once saw one of these out in the wild.26007Class 31. These were everywhere when I was a ladThree Class Fifties – Classic pose from the twilight days
I feel like I should know what this is, but I don’t. Its a shunter, in intercity colours, but not something I would expect to see in on a real railway. Very cool though. The cab reminded me of an old derelict NCB shunter that was stationed at Hickleton Main Colliery when I was very little.
The inside of a Pendolino. I’m a regular traveller in to Euston on these, but it was interesting to see what they looked like without people standing in the vestibules.
It was interesting to see a class 23 here, what with all them being scrapped 40 years ago. This one is a rebuild. The 37 was open to the public to enter the cab apply power, pull the horn, that sort of thing. Wonderfully noisy.
Class 93 – Very New machineClass 88 Class 68 – The all diesel version of the 88A couple of 73s
A few specimens of hybrid power. Electro Diesel locomotives. They run either diesel, or external supply.
There was a ride on a steam train. Always good fun. Unless you get ash or grit in your eyes.
There was a ferris wheel. They say that your tolerance for height diminishes with age. I believe them. I can honestly say I will be very happy if I never go on another ferris wheel. Kids loved it.
Electric Multiple Units
Burger and Chips
Food was a disappointment. There were loads of food stalls to choose from, but the queues were long too, so we settled for a burger. There was a also a mobile bar, with a healthy queue as you might imagine, but when I was finally served I was told it was zero alcohol drinks only. Turn the other cheek and all that.
The toilet facilities were quite excellent though.
There was a selection of High Speed Trains. With the HST power car (Intercity 125), class 91 from the Intercity 225, a Pendolino class 390, A TMST Class 373 Power Car from the Channel Tunnel services, and a green Deltic for good measure.
The place was full of Class 66s. I see about a thousand of those any time I go near a railway so I wasn’t paying that much attention to them. But I did leave the event somewhat disappointed that I hadn’t seen a class 59. I’d really hoped that I would see a class 59 up close but I left empty handed. I only realised later that there was one there and that I taken a photo of it.
One of the highlights for me was the freight diesel section, mostly in BR blue. This took me right back to my spotting days.
There was plenty of steam to be seen. It was particularly odd to see Fly Scotsman getting so little attention. Here is a locomotive that we drove across dark country lanes to see stop and take water in the Yorkshire dales when she first returned to the mainline. We followed her to York for her first exhibition. We queued for an hour in County Durham to get a tour of the cab and walk through the tender. Yet here she was, alone, visitors walking by like she was a regular dumpster.
Another one of the highlights. Brand New class 99.
The Pacer and Sprinter drew more attention than you might have expected. A blast of pure nostalgia.
Abrupt Closure
With so much left to see, the big hand tolled 4 o’clock and the public address system blarted out that the “even”Greatest Gathering was now closed. Sod off!”
It was a bit of a ‘Release the hounds’ moment. There was so much I hadn’t seen. We didn’t see the model railway or the main stalls. I had managed to pick up a small item but I wanted to see the traders. I wanted to see the model railways. There were exhibits that I knew were in attendance but hadn’t seen. The class 398 Tram-Tram for example. And so many others.
So. Sensing that the security team was about to turn nasty. We obediently made our way to the exit. We did, in the end, find the model railways, but they were packing up and we were rushed through.
Milton Keynes – I know it well from all the times I’ve whizzed through it
Would have been nice to spend a bit of time in this exhibit, looking at the layouts. I’m planning a model railway of my own. I need inspiration.
On the Way Out
Finally, as we were being herded toward the exit, I found one of the sections I knew I’d missed. The electric locomotives. In particular, the unique class 89. I have a couple of stories about the class 89.
On the way out we crossed an imaginary line, a point of no return where, once crossed, there was no re-entry. It was here that we saw an elderly gentleman pleading with security personnel, begging them to let him find the group from which he’d become separated. There is a fine line between crowd control and being a dick. This maybe the umbridge at the lack of a bar speaking, but I saw crowds of football hooligans in the eighties being corralled on to the specials by mounted police treated with more civility than the frail and inoffensive railway enthusiasts at the end of this event.
The Hotel
I’m not one to moan relentlessly, but as we were leaving the hotel on the Monday morning, we were asked about our stay by the receptionist. We said everything was great. She said “Really?” Like she didn’t believe us.
Ok. So the hotel was busy. It was full of mostly trainspotters. I’ve never seen that before. But it was fine. The food was nice enough. I’d had a curry, and though I’ve been spoiled by the curry experiences on offer down on Drummond Street next to Euston Station, it was still an alright curry.
A Chicken Makhani for £16.50 – Marinated chicken breast in a rich curry sauce, served with basmati rice and sourdough Naan. 1080 kcal. I am tempted to look up the recipe for this one. The other food was alright. The kids had pizzas. Cheese Toastie and chips, also not bad.
Woodfire wings for £7.95 – BBQ mesquite-flavoured chicken wings served with a garlic mayo dip. 586 kcal. I’d heard of mesquite from The Simpsons, so was pleased to try these. Its maybe time to investigate buying a smoker.
The breakfast though. An all you can eat buffet, included in the price of the hotel. There was no egg, no sausage, no hash brown. There was one slice of bacon left, which I had with a slice of bread. Bread that, and I hadn’t noticed at the time and only noticed in my photo, had the impression of finger marks. Grim.
All you can eat breakfast – That was all there was to eat, so not technically a lie.
There was me thinking the grimmest part was the finger nail clippings on the hotel room carpet. Best not dwell on things of that nature.
I was probably about ten years of age when my mate’s dad proudly showed off his model railway collection. Both my mate and me were seriously fascinated by trains at the time and on this one occasion while we were playing trains at his house, my mate’s dad asked if we wanted to see his own trains. Naturally we said yes.
It was very much a look don’t touch sort of thing. I was known to be clumsy and my grubby hands spoke for themselves. But anyway. Box after box emerged from attic, and each box contained one locomotive or another in pristine condition. And not just trains, but wagons and carriages too. Station buildings and unbuilt kits of village churches and corner shops. He even had a large collection of minitrix, the road system that went alongside the trains. I was super impressed, and I decided there and then that when I grew up, I too would have an attic full of model trains and railway kits packed away never to be enjoyed.
Well. I am all growed up now, and with very little effort on my part, I achieved the dream. I too have model trains boxed away in the attic. But now that I have this, I’m not sure that its really what I want. Model trains are supposed to be enjoyed, not stored away until some distant descendant sends them to the landfill or job lots it all on Ebay once we’ve left the mortal coil. No. Its high time I had a model railway of my own.
Six years on from that epiphany and I’m still no closer to enjoying my collection of trains. Simple truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. These things take a lot of planning. You need baseboards and electricals and plans and ideas. I’ve got none of that. All I have is boxes of trains, some of them are mint condition, still in the box. Some of them are massively in need of repair, having belonged to my own father when he was about the age that my youngest son is now. And that’s when it struck me. Before I begin my railway, I will need a fleet of working trains, and a lot of my trains need restoring.
This one for example. It used to sit in the siding on my old teenage model railway. Its one of two carriages that I never saw running properly. Having belonged to my dad, and being heavily played with by the looks of it, it was already in a poor condition when it was passed along to me. But I find the above image mesmerising, there is a sense of scale here that I scarcely believe I took the image myself with an inexpensive smart phone. I could almost step in to it, and climb aboard. It deserves to run again. It demands a restoration.
But what would it take to get something like this running again? The front coupler is knackered and will need replacing with something more modern. There are details broken off from bogies that will need restoring, its supposed to have a third rail contact shoe for picking up electricity from the power rail, I don’t know if the model even had one of those to begin with, but it should have one nonetheless. The buffers are missing. The whole thing is filthy, there is chipped and worn paintwork. By the yellow splashes on the window, I’m guessing that this has been touched up at some point before it came in to my possession, which would explain why it looks nothing like the other examples that I have found of it online.
And this is just the dummy car, the unpowered trailer.
The motorised car is in an even sorrier state. Its missing the motor bogie, and its missing huge chunks of the body. Part of the undercarriage has a hole burned through it, possibly as some sort of repair in the distant past. The roof is distorted, either by age or heat, and its no less filthy than the trailer car. Plus we’re also missing the glazing, and probably the interior detail, if this model ever had that to begin with.
This is going to be quite a project, and have some research to do.
At the end of a long hot exhausting day, what better way to wind down than to sit outside with a glass of wine and exchange ghost stories with an audience of young children? One year ago, almost to the day, we took our first ever family vacation in Bude, Cornwall, but not everything was listed in the tour guides, and to this day, we don’t know what the children saw that night.
Its a ten hour drive from Heysham to Bude, though much of that travel time involves very little movement. Birmingham is particularly gnarly. We arrived at the holiday park after 6pm, checked in to our chalet, unloaded the car, and then went to the restaurant for something eat. I had steak, with chips, it was very nice, and a few beers. After a long drive, its good to just chill out with a cold beer, but that can be quite boring for young children, especially when the only thing we can give them to drink contains sugar. We wanted them to sleep at some point, so we went back to the chalet to enjoy the first night of our holiday.
Cornwall is the nearest thing we’ve got on the UK mainland to a warm temperate climate, and our stay was no exception. The weather was glorious, and while mum ensured that the clean underpants found their way in to the correct drawers and stuff like that, I sat outside with the boys and a bottle of beer, and as we watched the sun sink toward the sea, I asked them. ‘Boy’s, what know you of the green flash at sunset?’
‘The what?’ They said.
The story I planned to tell would have been far more interesting to them if they’d paid more attention while they watched Pirates. But I explained the legend anyway, of how the setting sun sometimes emits a green flash in to the sky as it dips below the horizon. Its a real thing, not just Disney, and if you believe such things, it signifies the return of a soul from the afterlife.
That got their attention, and we all watched the sun sink lower and lower.
Waiting for the flash
There was no flash, maybe the hill got in the way, maybe no souls got lucky that day. Either way, their imaginations were piqued and they wanted to know more. Is it real? Have you seen a ghost? Do you know any ghost stories?
The answer to all three questions of course is yes. The green flash is real, its an atmospheric optical effect and I found pictures online to prove it. Yes I have seen a ghost, I have a couple of tales to tell from my own experience, but in my favourite story I like to recall I can’t remember seeing the ghost, but everyone else did and I was at the center of it all.
Many years ago, on the night before I was born, my mother caught a bus to the hospital for a check up. When she walked toward the reception desk to check in, she was intercepted by a passing midwife who grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and said ‘Come with me love, your baby’s in distress’. My mother was then ushered in to one of the delivery rooms, and a few hours later I was born, blue, and the with the umbilical cord wrapped twice tightly round my neck. My mother never got the chance to thank the midwife, without whose intervention, I might have not survived, or to ask how she knew I was in trouble. Whoever she was, she didn’t stay for the birth and none of the staff recognised her from the description my mother gave.
I was always intrigued as to how that midwife knew that I was in difficulty so when my own children came along, I took the opportunity to tell this story to the midwives, and to ask them how that midwife could have known, from a distance, that I was in distress. They couldn’t explain it, and they hadn’t heard of it happening elsewhere. It remains a mystery.
My dad is a down to earth pragmatic realist. ‘No such thing as ghosts’ he’d say, but even for my dad, sometimes seeing is believing.
When I was taken home, I was given the smallest room and slept in a crib. The larger two rooms were taken by my sisters and my parents, and my arrival changed things in unexpected ways. My sisters, aged 7 and 5 at the time became unsettled, reluctant to go to bed, and when they did, they were anxious and sleepless, and were bothered by the old woman that stood out on the landing at night. There was no woman on the landing, my mam was the only woman in the house, but they had both seen it, and they both described the visitor with earnest sincerity.
My Dad laughed it off of course when he heard. ‘Children, tsk’, and he remained opposed to the existence of the nightly visitor even when my mother saw it herself, standing in the doorway to my room. This figure didn’t talk, didn’t wear a sheet, she wasn’t transparent; she stood there is silence, occasionally parting an assuring smile The visitor would appear most nights, but only when she wasn’t expected, and my dad laughed off every new silly sighting.
One night however, the visitor stopped being silly, a hysterical figment of the imagination, and instead became very real. That was the night that my dad needed to take a midnight trip to the bathroom. I don’t know if he’d made there or not, but the clatter of the bedroom door, and the thud of objects in the dark being clumsily displaced by a hasty return to bed woke up my mother, who slept lightly anyway. My Dad jumped back in to the bed and pulled the covers over his head.
‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes, stood in Michael’s door, she looked at me’
‘Did she do anything?’
‘No, just looked at me. She was old looking’
‘I think its my Grandma’ my mother said, ‘that’s how I remember seeing her when I was little’
‘What do you think she wants?’
‘Nothing bad’ my mother reasoned, I think she’s watching over Michael’
After that, the sighting got less and less, until no one saw my guardian angel at all. After my traumatic birth, I had started to thrive as a big bouncing baby boy, but I have no recollection of that time, how could I? But I do have some strange memories from my early days, and very weird and symbolic dreams, and I can’t help but wonder about the other things in life that go on beneath our noses, before our eyes, but forever unnoticed, except in times of need. Did I really have a guardian angel to watch over me? Is she still watching over me? Perhaps I’ll never know, but its a nice thought.
My story though, unfortunately, had the opposite effect on the kids to what I’d intended. The plan was that they would listen to some spooky stories, and then go quietly to sleep, and I would drink wine on the veranda with my wife. Now, however, they were more energised than ever, and they bounced around the chalet front like zombies on a sugar rush, and there was no silencing them. They were overstimulated and I had only myself to blame.
But all of a sudden, the oldest stopped the hyperactive silliness and came over to stand next to me. He tugged on my arm and pointed over to horizon where the sun had set. ‘What’s that?’ He said.
I couldn’t see anything, except the dying light of the dusk. ‘Whats what?’ I said, there was nothing out of the usual.
‘Its there!’ He said again, pointing, and this time more urgent, he took a step backwards to stand behind me. ‘Its getting closer…’
And then he ran in doors, and the yongest followed him quickly inside, he shut the door behind him, leaving me outside on my own.
Misty dusk
I scanned the horizon again, looking for anything alarming, but there was nothing, and no motion to be seen, just the beautiful evening sky.
I went inside to join the children and ask them what they saw. ‘Doesn’t matter’ the oldest said.
‘Do you want to go outside again?’ I asked them both.
‘No!’ They replied in unison.
‘Why not?’ I asked again, but the reply was always the same, It doesn’t matter.
It wasn’t mentioned again, but for the whole of the stay, they wouldn’t stay out to watch the sun or play outside after dark, and at night time, the curtains were to be firmly closed.
That thing when you’re traveling alone. You book what looks like a nice hotel, but when you get there all you can think about is Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected.
It’s not even that there is anything wrong with the place, it’s just that it’s a little empty considering that you supposedly got the last room. The staff are pleasant and attentive, but it’s just too quiet. Stuffy, even.
So after checking in you take your luggage to your room and freshen up, before going back down to the restaurant for a bite to eat. Again, the place is empty, except for the waiter, the guy behind the bar, and whoever mans the kitchen, and of course the mandatory two ladies of a certain age enjoying a cocktail.
You order yourself a drink, a pint of something local, and its brought over to your table on a little paper doily. It has a strange taste taste but you think nothing of it, it’s not that it’s bad, it’s just an unfamiliar brew.
So you finish your drink and you order another one. This time, the bar man brings along the evening menu and without saying a word, he places it on the table next to your drink. Its been a long day and you haven’t eaten since you left the safety and familiarity of your hometown so you pick up the menu and review the options. Perhaps you’re more tired than you might have realised. The words are blurred, difficult to read.
Not recognizing much on the menu, which doesn’t even list prices, you keep it simple, and you order the Rabbit Cacciatore. It comes quickly enough but there isn’t much of it, and the pint you wash it down with still has the strange taste. You order something different for the next one.
By now, the two ladies of a certain age enjoying a cocktail have left and it’s just you and the bar man. His attentive gaze could be mistaken for willing an early finish, but you decide to stay for a few more pints and order the same again; you receive your pint with a reticent smile from the bar man and take it to a seat by the window where you plan to enjoy the rest of your evening watching the city go by.
Almost immediately, you catch the eye of the homeless guy sitting on the pavement at the entrance to the Underground in the cold February night. The swish and cosy ambiance of the three point five star rated hotel and restaurant is shattered, and you instead decide to hastily finish your pint and retire to your room for a bit of bedtime telly.
By the time the lift delivers you to your floor, you’re exhausted, drowsy even. You enter your room and close the door behind you, being sure to lock it. Too drained even for a bit of ITV, you recline on to the bed and immediately drift off soundly asleep.
But you don’t sleep long. Soon, there are hushed voices outside the door, and the sound of keys jangle, the door handle crunches the spring inside. Someone, mistakenly, is trying to enter your room.
You sit up, except you don’t, you can’t. You’re pinned to the bed. You call out, but hear nothing but a hushed groan, your words slurred as if drunk, drugged even. You’re heavy. Is something on top of you, is someone in the room? For a moment, you panic, but then it’s over. You’re awake and the room is empty.
“Sleep paralysis is when you can’t move any part of your body right before falling asleep or as you wake up. It happens when your body is in between stages of sleep and wakefulness. An episode is temporary and only lasts for a few seconds to a couple of minutes. It’s a type of parasomnia.”
Sure. Terrifying. But just a dream. But it does raise the interesting question: has your suitcase been moved? Seriously, was that how you left it? Are you sure?
By the fourth or fifth time you’ve done this, you decide, paranoia or not, you need peace of mind, even if it does come in a pretty but blurred pink case.
Can’t believe they didn’t think of these before, Del Griffith and Neal Page sure could have done with one.
It was the voice in my head that said it, but where that originated I’ll never know. Was it my own self loathing, the collective subconscience, God, a stray thought from my wife detected via ESP?
But yes, we were travelling 160 miles to see and photograph a culvert. In my defence, it wasn’t just any culvert, it was where I used to play when I was about six years old.
Possibly still in the weird territory, but this was basically a place where a number of convergent streams dipped underground, and had formed a wide basin with shallow water that was perfect for little feet to splash about.
I hadn’t been there for about thirty years, and even then, the splashing about was ten years before that. But I’d had an idea for something creative that got me thinking of this culvert. In my mind’s eye, this was an idyllic place of sunny days and happy memories. Something Bernstein Bearsy. How nice would it be to go back?
Long springs and longer summers, we played all sorts of games on the grassy field beside it, jumped in the water, built dams. We brought our Transformers and Go-bot toys and waged war in the canyons and long grass. That’s what I remembered.
The reality was actually a bit grim.
It was smaller than I recall, and overgrown. There was no way that this was a place frequented by little feet any more.
Perhaps if I had visited in Summer, it might have been a different story, but this was not what I wanted to see. The wide river basin was barely a foot at its widest. The vast flood plain where we made our base was just grassy mud. The sound of children laughing, gone, as if it never even were.
Standing alone at the bus stop. Cold and wet from the rain, but taking shelter beneath the plastic erm shelter.
It’s not that unpleasant. Listening to the rain hit the roof, and then dropping, the pattering sound of large water drops hitting the tarmac.
Letting the buses pass that don’t go my way, some stop, let someone on. Let someone off. The engines shutdown to silence while they’re stationary, gone are the sounds of a diesel ticking over, now that the hybrids are used. Gone too is the diesel smell. I miss that.
I’m not cross about getting the bus, but I am mad at myself for letting it happen. I thought we could manage with one car, but that is stupid. Just because I work from home doesn’t mean there won’t be times I need to travel.
This needs to be a lesson for me. I need to have options. We all need options in life.
Yesterday I caught the vintage Ribble bus. It was just the same as any other bus, but painted in the old colours. I’ve been nostalgic recently for the hour long 226 ride of thirty years ago, sitting in my favourite seat, at the back downstairs to the left. That reassuring whine of the engine, the warmth from it’s heater, the comforting familiarity of every twist and turn and bump in the road. Enough to fill the desires of a man’s heart. What the fuck was I thinking?
Bus shelters are not heated. They are drafty. It was ok when I was a teen. I was a student. I didn’t have any money. Buses got me where I needed to go, on the rare occasions I had somewhere to go, and being a penniless student in the 1990s, those were few and far between, just like the buses.
It brings it home, being stood alone at the bus stop on a cold damp rainy November morning. It’s makes you ask yourself some searching questions, like why am I here? School run. Why am I using the bus? The car is in the garage. Why can’t I walk? It’s ten miles. Why is it ten miles? We moved. Why not change schools? A promise.
In retrospect, telling the children that they would not have to change school before we knew where we would be moving to wasn’t bright. Noted for future reference.
More buses go by, not going where I am going. And cars, lots of cars, taking their drivers exactly where they needed to go, with their warm dry protective bubble. It’s tempting to think, that if all those people were forced to use the bus too, there would be more buses running, and I wouldn’t be stood in a drafty bus shelter on cold wet November morning, and I wouldn’t be considering the outlay of another car.
Duggan's Dig 