Off We Go Again (Fingers Crossed)

Devastation struck Puffindom earlier in the year when readers heard of Mrs AWS’s Christmas present falling flat. Her once-in-a-lifetime diverted train trip from Carlisle to Preston via the scenic Settle-Carlisle railway suffered a last second cancellation. The diversions were taking place because of a bridge replacement over the West Coast Main Line south of Penrith.

I have spies on the iron road who form the backbone of our Wednesday night 16–60s seven-a-side Wendyball team. They inform me of all kinds of trouble with the trains, including pipes freezing overnight and only platform three at our windswept Debatable Lands halt being suitable for their use. Rather than squeeze ourselves onto a subsequent service, I hit the refund button. In a measure of how much the trade winds wanted to keep us at home that day; the fare arrived back in my bank within minutes.

Puffin HongKonger was on hand with both the same idea and a better standing with the gods of travel. His well-received account of the run can be found here.

Not to worry. It comes around again, just in time for my much better half’s birthday. April engineering work on the main line north of Preston includes upgrades to signalling, track and overhead lines, closing the route between Preston, Oxenholme and Lancaster. Thus, trains are diverted via the historic Settle-Carlisle line, with replacement buses operating and reduced services continuing through mid- to late-April.

I have booked us on a somewhat irregular shuttle service, that sees a train about every hour or two, travelling between Carlisle and Preston. Early departures heading north originate from Wolverhampton and Crewe, allowing great opportunities for late running. Our reservations are on the 08:13 heading south and the 13:06 return, allowing for 2 hours and 16 minutes in Preston – less if by good fortune the ‘out’ is late. Fingers crossed.

As for Mrs AWS’s birthday. Eagle-eyed regular readers will recall it was our 30th wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. The actual day, and even the original time, coincided with Rangers kicking off against Celtic in what proved to be a towsy Glasgow dinner time derby. You will also be aware of the holidays and overtime tangle I’m suffering while ‘stacking the shelves’.

This meant we couldn’t celebrate our anniversary on that day. Various other commitments meant the only date available was the following week’s Friday. Yes, Friday 13th March. A theme develops. As for our birthday trip to Preston, as these things always come in threes, Puffins may be unsurprised to read that Mrs AWS shares her natal date with Hitler. A message there.

Talk of iron rials thundering south brings us to unfinished business. Before Christmas, Mrs AWS and I ventured to Manchester for the Christmas markets. The journey out appeared on these pages as a part one. What happened next is long overdue:

We arrived in Manchester Piccadilly bang on time and set off to find the Christmas market(s). For the uninitiated, Picadilly is a terminus station with two notorious, congested through platforms, thirteen and fourteen, that require a waiting area before access. Heading in the other direction, a travelator takes us to the exit. From here, we take a snap of the train shed, then pause for the war memorial.

Also in the station was a yellow Bee train. I didn’t realise, but this was the first re-paint for Manchester mayor Andy Burnham’s “Bee Network” transport plan, a major project to create a London-style, integrated public transport system across Greater Manchester.

I wish I’d taken a photo. Instead, we’re out on the main road, armed with a pocket-sized smudgy map printed out from the internet the day before. We have a plan. Chinatown and then the Christmas market at Albert Square next to Manchester’s Gothic town hall.

As often with a plan, something else beginning with a ‘p’ looms: a problem. A friend warns me that as a gentleman of a certain age with a shaved head and a couple of front teeth missing I must sprint to Chinatown as Canal Street g*y village lies in its path. Mrs AWS pauses to take a photo as I hurry ahead.

That’s the canal that, in better times, former Greater Manchester chief constable and Old Testament prophet, James Anderton, sent a police boat equipped with a giant searchlight to when he found out about the goings-on. And I’m not joking, according to the Temp:

‘During his time as chief constable, Anderton directed significant police resources towards cracking down on the gay community in Manchester’s Canal Street area. This involved frequent raids on bars and the use of an old Victorian law to charge men with “licentious dancing” for dancing together. Reports from the time indicate that police motorboats deployed to the Rochdale Canal, using powerful searchlights to expose and deter gay men meeting in the alleys, locks, and under bridges along the canal banks.’

Rightly so.

From Chinatown, it’s a zig and a zag to the Albert Square Christmas Market, which is easy to find as it contains the Manchester Eye. Safe, clean and with plenty of stewards, the market is well enclosed in case of an incoming diversity catastrophe. Toilets are opposite in the Slug & Lettuce. Having been fed and watered on the train, we didn’t take a lot of notice of the prices – or spend anything. However, a trip on the eye was a tempting eight pounds each. Reasonable, given how expensive everything is these days.

The gondolas are enclosed, and you don’t have to share with strangers. Rising to a height of 150 feet, the trip offers fine views of the surrounding metropolis and its attendant skyscrapers. Although at a glance, not much appeared to be holding us in.

Moving on from Albert Square and as we cross John Dalton Street, I must declare an interest. In an even dafter strange-but-true than Anderton’s anti-cruising police boat canal cruises, the street next to Albert Square is named after a relative.

Being a North Country soul like myself, Dalton’s mother was a Worth-Saying. John Dalton, the man whose scientific findings revolutionised industry and put Manchester on the map of the modern world, was born out West near Cockermouth in 1766. His mother shares my unusual Debatable Lands surname and hailed from eighteen miles away, slap bang in the middle of Worth-Saying country. Respectable land-owning Cumberland Quakers, I wonder what they would have made of a g*y village?

I digress. We’re now heading for St Ann’s Square, where another Christmas market sits. Named after St Ann’s Church, which stands at one end of the square, it includes the old Manchester stock exchange; now a theatre, retail outlets and a hotel co-owned by Puffin’s favourite Gary Neville. But what catches the eye are the jewellery outlets, in particular the £40,000 timepieces, no doubt in demand from the nearby Cheshire Wendyball playing community.

Round the corner and opposite the exchange sits Burton’s Arcade. Built in 1871, this is a beautiful Victorian structure of iron and glass, restored in the 1980s, that houses exclusive shops and a number of office suites. In our photo, it looks deserted, but out of shot, it wasn’t. To the left were eateries, to the right a traditional barbershop, and above, a roof under repair.

What an interesting place! And we are yet to reach the museum or the famous tranquil Piccadilly Gardens!

To be continued…
 

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