- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
- Messages
- 69,581
Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizard’s Quest Part 4 – The Lion, the Tin Man, and the Scarecrow
Background: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-to-Jack-Black
Previous instalments -
Part 1: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Knaresborough
Part 2: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-2
Part 3: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-3
Huddersfield is a large West Yorkshire town, which nestles into the Pennine hills between Leeds and Manchester. It is as rich with character and industrial history as it once was with textile money, and the town and surrounding area are littered with the legacy of long-empty cotton mills. I like Huddersfield, it’s a pleasant, friendly town, not pretentious like Leeds, and prettier than Sheffield. It has some excellent pubs and a decent market, with a second-hand market twice a week.
ScruffUK lives in Huddersfield, and I very much enjoy visiting him there for a few pints and a chinwag. Making an honest living keeps him away from the Tuesday market, though he inevitably accuses me of ‘poaching’ nonetheless! In truth, I’ve found very little in Huddersfield market in the past, and some of the traders charge unrealistic prices, but in pursuit of the Wizard’s quest, I thought I’d risk the ire of Scruff, and shell-out on the train fare to Huddersfield town.
So on a rain-sodden Tuesday morning, as the UK was lashed with wind and rain, as rivers burst their banks and high seas crashed against the shores of our sceptic isle, I sallied forth to Huddersfield in pursuit of the Wizard’s Quest, and in search of pointy treasure to send in tribute to Oz. While the valiant Sir Scruff could not join me, I had been promised assistance by The Lurking Knight, a local knife-collector, who silently peruses this forum, and who I had met on a previous visit to the old mill town. We were to meet at eleven and a half hours of the clock, at the Market Cafe.
I must be careful what I say about Huddersfield so as not to upset Scruff. I know he was quite disgruntled by my previous report on a visit to his birthplace, the nearby town of Dewsbury. I’m afraid I referred to a prominent statue in the town as ‘The Vomiting Man’ (see http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...-A-Knife-Dewsbury-With-My-Pockets-Hanging-Out) . Scruff has asked me to point out that the statue is in a fact “A work of art of national significance, beautifully embodying Dewsbury’s innate spirit of solidarity and kindness, and protecting the weak in the face of adversity.” There was a lot more besides, but I’ve accidentally deleted the e-mail.
The fast trains from Leeds to Huddersfield run on the York-Manchester line, and are inevitably packed with people travelling to Manchester Airport and beyond. In spite of this, no extra luggage facilities have been provided on the trains, and many of those travelling to the airport are accompanied by suitcases the size of an average refrigerator. Wheeled luggage is the modern curse of the British train station or airport, some of these things are so big they should require a vehicle license.
This is not the holiday season, but there is still an ample amount of luggage on the train platform. A group of young women, dressed for sunnier climes, surround themselves with pastel-shaded wheeled crates (OK, when I say ‘pastel-shaded’, I actually mean ‘shades of pink’
, almost as big as themselves. A large man has two wheeled suitcases of a similar size, and is dragging them along the platform behind him, with one handle gripped in each of his pudgy fists. A couple with large backpacks wait eagerly for the train. As it approaches down the line, people begin to jockey for position, some using their luggage to steal room on the platform. They are protective of their personal space, each trying to edge a little further forward without making physical contact with their fellow travellers, and all the time nobody at all makes eye contact. As the train pulls to a halt, some of those on the platform adjust their position so as to be nearest the doors of the train, others realise they have been left at a disadvantage, and retreat completely from the platform edge, sacrificing proximity to the train to attain a good position among the second layer of travellers.
The doors of the train open, and those disembarking at Leeds attempt to do so. In a well-practiced manoeuvre, the thronging crowd blocking the doors backs off a few inches, each person attempting to maintain their position by giving as little ground as possible. With frustrated faces, the arriving travellers step from the train and push through the crowd, as the vacuum behind them is filled immediately, but with an air of practiced politeness, as if those flowing into the empty space had been sucked into it by some invisible force, rather than ruthlessly conniving to get on the train first. As they wait their turn to board, the faces of those remaining on the platform are fixed in concentration, scanning the windows of the train to see where most seats remain, watching the ingress of passengers at the other doors with frustration. Couples exchange information between them in whispers, deciding their game-plan, whether to go left or right.
I am unencumbered by luggage, but little different in my desire for a seat. I step onto the train in the second or third wave of passengers, gamble on turning right, and sit down in the first available space.
The girls with the pink suitcases have chosen to stand with their luggage in the vestibule, entirely blocking one set of doors with their suitcases. They laugh and chatter among themselves. An old lady is complaining about the direction in which her seat faces, “I can’t go back’ards, I’ve telled ‘em I can’t go back’ards.” People are still trying to shove bags and rucsacs into the small overhead luggage racks as the train departs. The carriage is hot and airless, and I’m glad I only have a short journey.
The train quickly leaves Leeds, passing Yorkshire’s tallest building, known locally as ‘The Dalek’, and then the Egyptian Buildings, once built by an eccentric factory owner, who during World War 2, grazed sheep on the roof to give the Luftwaffe the impression the building was in fact a field. We move past modern high rises and the local prison, then on past Kirkstall Abbey, and attractive views of river and canal. Some passengers disembark at Dewsbury, and one or two get on. One of the latter is a quarrelsome man who clearly has mental-health problems. He argues with the guard who asks to see his ticket, telling him to mind his own business, being completely unreasonable. In typical British fashion, almost every other passenger finds somewhere else to look.
Soon I see the modern football stadium of Huddersfield Town Football Club, and it’s time for me to disembark, together with a dozen other passengers. I step from the train, and shortly after pass through the turnstile, and out of the station.
Immediately outside Huddersfield station is a large bronze statue of one of the town’s most famous sons, 1960’s British prime-minister Harold Wilson. Despite rarely being photographed in life, without his trademark tobacco pipe stuck firmly between his teeth, Wilson’s doppelganger lacks the appendage. Perhaps the absence of the pipe is reflected in the statue’s slightly troubled expression, or maybe he is pondering the dark forces that rumour has it led to his unexpected and sudden resignation. Then again, maybe he is just wishing he’d brought the ‘Gannex’ raincoat he was also rarely photographed without.
I note that the bronze Wilson’s right hand is reaching into a jacket pocket, surely for his pipe, and maybe if the artist had waited just a little longer he’d have been rewarded by a Wilson looking as contented as when he sat in his deckchair on his annual Scilly Isles holiday, with a knotted hankie on his head, and the demure Mrs Wilson scribbling poetry beside him. Of course that was back when politicians were considerably more ‘ordinary’ and un-airbrushed than they are today. Wilson was a balding little man, rheumy-eyes and moon-faced, and somewhat old before his time. He would have been no more a match for the slick ‘spin-doctors’ and made-over, media-savvy, wide-boys of today, than he was for the Old Guard Establishment, and the spooks in the shadows, who plotted against him back in the sixties.
Behind me, I hear an exaggerated “Helllooooo”. A ball-shaped man comes bouncing down the station steps like a pram in a Russian film. He is wearing a Peruvian bonnet, tied under his chin, finger-less gloves, a dark coat tied around his waist with string, and what I can only describe as hippy pyjamas, blowsed into old black work-boots. This is ‘Ratty’, a local character, who has been selling ‘The Big Issue’ for as long as anyone cares to remember. ‘The Big Issue’ is a weekly magazine, which is sold by homeless people to raise some income. Despite not actually being homeless, Ratty has the best pitches in at least three towns. Part of his schtick is dressing like a scarecrow and behaving like a buffoon. Now he’s doing a silly walk along one of the station’s long steps, lazily goose-stepping while holding his copies of the magazine close to his chest with one hand and theatrically waving the other. Some people exit the station. “Hellooo. Hellooo. Hellooo.” Ratty exclaims, capering slightly. They pass him by. I move on.
As I’m taking a photograph of Mr Wilson, an old man of 84 strikes up a conversation, which inevitably turns immediately to politicians, who seem to be loathed by everyone but themselves, and distrusted universally. “Attlee were best of ‘em”, he tells me, referring to one of Wilson’s predecessors. “But he were a ----, same as they’re ----- today.” I don’t disagree, but I’m a little surprised by his language. “You’ll ‘ave to excuse my French,” he says.
Towering over the central square outside the station is a vast Aslan-like lion, a metaphor for Huddersfield’s grandiose past. The huge stone beast stalks along the front of the Lion Building, built in 1853. Its imposing size makes the statue hard to miss, and it dominates the square below, and the attention of visitors, far more impressively than either Ratty the scarecrow, or Mr Wilson, the tin man.
Background: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-to-Jack-Black
Previous instalments -
Part 1: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Knaresborough
Part 2: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-2
Part 3: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-3
Huddersfield is a large West Yorkshire town, which nestles into the Pennine hills between Leeds and Manchester. It is as rich with character and industrial history as it once was with textile money, and the town and surrounding area are littered with the legacy of long-empty cotton mills. I like Huddersfield, it’s a pleasant, friendly town, not pretentious like Leeds, and prettier than Sheffield. It has some excellent pubs and a decent market, with a second-hand market twice a week.
ScruffUK lives in Huddersfield, and I very much enjoy visiting him there for a few pints and a chinwag. Making an honest living keeps him away from the Tuesday market, though he inevitably accuses me of ‘poaching’ nonetheless! In truth, I’ve found very little in Huddersfield market in the past, and some of the traders charge unrealistic prices, but in pursuit of the Wizard’s quest, I thought I’d risk the ire of Scruff, and shell-out on the train fare to Huddersfield town.
So on a rain-sodden Tuesday morning, as the UK was lashed with wind and rain, as rivers burst their banks and high seas crashed against the shores of our sceptic isle, I sallied forth to Huddersfield in pursuit of the Wizard’s Quest, and in search of pointy treasure to send in tribute to Oz. While the valiant Sir Scruff could not join me, I had been promised assistance by The Lurking Knight, a local knife-collector, who silently peruses this forum, and who I had met on a previous visit to the old mill town. We were to meet at eleven and a half hours of the clock, at the Market Cafe.
I must be careful what I say about Huddersfield so as not to upset Scruff. I know he was quite disgruntled by my previous report on a visit to his birthplace, the nearby town of Dewsbury. I’m afraid I referred to a prominent statue in the town as ‘The Vomiting Man’ (see http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...-A-Knife-Dewsbury-With-My-Pockets-Hanging-Out) . Scruff has asked me to point out that the statue is in a fact “A work of art of national significance, beautifully embodying Dewsbury’s innate spirit of solidarity and kindness, and protecting the weak in the face of adversity.” There was a lot more besides, but I’ve accidentally deleted the e-mail.
The fast trains from Leeds to Huddersfield run on the York-Manchester line, and are inevitably packed with people travelling to Manchester Airport and beyond. In spite of this, no extra luggage facilities have been provided on the trains, and many of those travelling to the airport are accompanied by suitcases the size of an average refrigerator. Wheeled luggage is the modern curse of the British train station or airport, some of these things are so big they should require a vehicle license.
This is not the holiday season, but there is still an ample amount of luggage on the train platform. A group of young women, dressed for sunnier climes, surround themselves with pastel-shaded wheeled crates (OK, when I say ‘pastel-shaded’, I actually mean ‘shades of pink’
, almost as big as themselves. A large man has two wheeled suitcases of a similar size, and is dragging them along the platform behind him, with one handle gripped in each of his pudgy fists. A couple with large backpacks wait eagerly for the train. As it approaches down the line, people begin to jockey for position, some using their luggage to steal room on the platform. They are protective of their personal space, each trying to edge a little further forward without making physical contact with their fellow travellers, and all the time nobody at all makes eye contact. As the train pulls to a halt, some of those on the platform adjust their position so as to be nearest the doors of the train, others realise they have been left at a disadvantage, and retreat completely from the platform edge, sacrificing proximity to the train to attain a good position among the second layer of travellers. The doors of the train open, and those disembarking at Leeds attempt to do so. In a well-practiced manoeuvre, the thronging crowd blocking the doors backs off a few inches, each person attempting to maintain their position by giving as little ground as possible. With frustrated faces, the arriving travellers step from the train and push through the crowd, as the vacuum behind them is filled immediately, but with an air of practiced politeness, as if those flowing into the empty space had been sucked into it by some invisible force, rather than ruthlessly conniving to get on the train first. As they wait their turn to board, the faces of those remaining on the platform are fixed in concentration, scanning the windows of the train to see where most seats remain, watching the ingress of passengers at the other doors with frustration. Couples exchange information between them in whispers, deciding their game-plan, whether to go left or right.
I am unencumbered by luggage, but little different in my desire for a seat. I step onto the train in the second or third wave of passengers, gamble on turning right, and sit down in the first available space.
The girls with the pink suitcases have chosen to stand with their luggage in the vestibule, entirely blocking one set of doors with their suitcases. They laugh and chatter among themselves. An old lady is complaining about the direction in which her seat faces, “I can’t go back’ards, I’ve telled ‘em I can’t go back’ards.” People are still trying to shove bags and rucsacs into the small overhead luggage racks as the train departs. The carriage is hot and airless, and I’m glad I only have a short journey.
The train quickly leaves Leeds, passing Yorkshire’s tallest building, known locally as ‘The Dalek’, and then the Egyptian Buildings, once built by an eccentric factory owner, who during World War 2, grazed sheep on the roof to give the Luftwaffe the impression the building was in fact a field. We move past modern high rises and the local prison, then on past Kirkstall Abbey, and attractive views of river and canal. Some passengers disembark at Dewsbury, and one or two get on. One of the latter is a quarrelsome man who clearly has mental-health problems. He argues with the guard who asks to see his ticket, telling him to mind his own business, being completely unreasonable. In typical British fashion, almost every other passenger finds somewhere else to look.
Soon I see the modern football stadium of Huddersfield Town Football Club, and it’s time for me to disembark, together with a dozen other passengers. I step from the train, and shortly after pass through the turnstile, and out of the station.
Immediately outside Huddersfield station is a large bronze statue of one of the town’s most famous sons, 1960’s British prime-minister Harold Wilson. Despite rarely being photographed in life, without his trademark tobacco pipe stuck firmly between his teeth, Wilson’s doppelganger lacks the appendage. Perhaps the absence of the pipe is reflected in the statue’s slightly troubled expression, or maybe he is pondering the dark forces that rumour has it led to his unexpected and sudden resignation. Then again, maybe he is just wishing he’d brought the ‘Gannex’ raincoat he was also rarely photographed without.
I note that the bronze Wilson’s right hand is reaching into a jacket pocket, surely for his pipe, and maybe if the artist had waited just a little longer he’d have been rewarded by a Wilson looking as contented as when he sat in his deckchair on his annual Scilly Isles holiday, with a knotted hankie on his head, and the demure Mrs Wilson scribbling poetry beside him. Of course that was back when politicians were considerably more ‘ordinary’ and un-airbrushed than they are today. Wilson was a balding little man, rheumy-eyes and moon-faced, and somewhat old before his time. He would have been no more a match for the slick ‘spin-doctors’ and made-over, media-savvy, wide-boys of today, than he was for the Old Guard Establishment, and the spooks in the shadows, who plotted against him back in the sixties.
Behind me, I hear an exaggerated “Helllooooo”. A ball-shaped man comes bouncing down the station steps like a pram in a Russian film. He is wearing a Peruvian bonnet, tied under his chin, finger-less gloves, a dark coat tied around his waist with string, and what I can only describe as hippy pyjamas, blowsed into old black work-boots. This is ‘Ratty’, a local character, who has been selling ‘The Big Issue’ for as long as anyone cares to remember. ‘The Big Issue’ is a weekly magazine, which is sold by homeless people to raise some income. Despite not actually being homeless, Ratty has the best pitches in at least three towns. Part of his schtick is dressing like a scarecrow and behaving like a buffoon. Now he’s doing a silly walk along one of the station’s long steps, lazily goose-stepping while holding his copies of the magazine close to his chest with one hand and theatrically waving the other. Some people exit the station. “Hellooo. Hellooo. Hellooo.” Ratty exclaims, capering slightly. They pass him by. I move on.
As I’m taking a photograph of Mr Wilson, an old man of 84 strikes up a conversation, which inevitably turns immediately to politicians, who seem to be loathed by everyone but themselves, and distrusted universally. “Attlee were best of ‘em”, he tells me, referring to one of Wilson’s predecessors. “But he were a ----, same as they’re ----- today.” I don’t disagree, but I’m a little surprised by his language. “You’ll ‘ave to excuse my French,” he says.
Towering over the central square outside the station is a vast Aslan-like lion, a metaphor for Huddersfield’s grandiose past. The huge stone beast stalks along the front of the Lion Building, built in 1853. Its imposing size makes the statue hard to miss, and it dominates the square below, and the attention of visitors, far more impressively than either Ratty the scarecrow, or Mr Wilson, the tin man.
Last edited:
).
