- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
- Messages
- 71,260
As regular forum members will know, while I live in Leeds, in the west of Yorkshire, I travel regularly to Sheffield, in South Yorkshire. There are a range of trains that make the journey, taking anything from 45 minutes to twice that. Usually, however, when my returning train pulls into Wakefield station, I know that I will shortly be home in Leeds, a mere 10 minutes away. Occasionally though, the train has to divert to a place called Castleford, about 15 minutes down a branch line, before it reverses back to the main line. When this happens, there is a collective groan from most of the passengers, which is probably not limited entirely to the delay. Castleford has something of a grim reputation, and when the train arrives there, the sour faces of the existing passengers only sour further at the sight of half-drunk, half-dressed Castlefordian revellers staggering onto the train to continue their partying in metropolitan Leeds.
Castleford has always had a reputation as a rough hard-drinking town, and thirty years ago it was a popular weekend destination for people from the surrounding towns and villages, hell-bent on having a good time. Saturday nights in “Cas Vegas” were a sight to behold; loud, boisterous, wild, intimidating. Hundreds of broad-chested, heavy suppin’, young miners, from scores of pit-villages, wallets fat as their accents. Cas’ lasses out on the pull, even more raucous than blokes, short skirts, white high-heels, pints of cider ‘n’ black. Rugby league fans and union men. Gallons of beer and dozens of pubs. Brawls outside chip shops. Rowdy, drunken bus rides back to one-horse towns and villages. The big night out before another week dahn t’pit.
A year-long pit strike and three decades of poverty changed the face of Castleford, as it did all the local towns. Big enough to still be standing, but nonetheless shaken. Yesterday, I think was the only time I’ve ever visited Castleford intentionally, and I expected it to have changed little since I last passed through the town. I anticipated a high street full of boarded-up shops and closed down pubs. I expected it would be like other small northern towns that have seen better days, with rheumy-eyed, sad-faced men standing smoking on dirty pavements outside run-down boozers selling cut-price ale, young girls, old before their time, pushing over-laden prams filled with sticky-faced children, and pale, skinny young men, who look like they’ve never done a day’s work, standing on street corners, up to no good.
My internet research did not give me much cause for optimism. According to most websites that cover the town at all, the number one thing to do in Castleford is “Xscape Castleford”, a sentiment I could fully appreciate, though ‘Xscape’ turns out to be a slightly-out-of-town mall, where you can do exciting things like shopping and eating a Big Mac, a bit of escapism for Castlefordians. Come to Castleford, to escape? Why bother going in the first place you might ask. But, as you have also probably guessed, the reason for the trip was my unending search for pointy treasure. And I made sure I bought a return train ticket.
The train station is in a slightly grim part of town, and the site of the abandoned ‘Baja Beach Club’ just outside it cemented my preconceived ideas about fallen Cas Vegas. As I headed towards the market though, my prejudices began to fall away. For sure, there are empty shops in the high street, as there are today in every British town, but no more than there are in swanky Leeds. The market seemed to be positively thriving. I walked around the bustling high street, and much to my liking, found several fishing tackle shops, an army surplus store, and a gun shop, just the sort of places which would have been pushed to the margins, if not into closure, in Castleford’s much bigger neighbour.
There was a bitterly cold wind blowing yesterday, and I felt sorry for the traders staffing the stalls in the outdoor ‘second-hand’ market, which was the main reason for my visit. In reality, while not a bad little market, it wasn’t much of a second-hand market, and only a few of the stalls looked like they were not managed by regular traders. It had the character of many small-town markets, with stalls selling cut-price cakes and confectionary, hats and socks and balaclavas, fruit and veg, ex-rental DVDs, and there was the obligatory cannabis paraphernalia stall, which for some reason seems to now be a stock feature of British markets. Despite the inaccurate character description given though, I still managed to find a few items to make the trip worthwhile.
With the pits long gone, I don’t know what they do for work in Castleford these days, but the folk there do seem to be faring much better than they were a decade or more ago, and while it is unlikely ever to be a pretty town, Castleford is certainly not as grim as its reputation.
And now for the knives!
Here’s what I got.
The three pen-knives are all Sheffield-made, and in good condition. The Joseph Elliot & Sons is the only one with carbon-steel blades, and it has great walk and talk. The covers are very smooth, with a very faint grain. I think they’re synthetic.
The stainless John Watts appears never to have been used.
The third pen-knife, with French ivory covers and a file-worked back spring, doesn’t carry a maker’s mark unfortunately, just ‘stainless’ above ‘Sheffield’ above ‘England’. The tip of the larger blade has been used for prying, and it shows the scars, but the knife is otherwise in good shape.
The German Army knife, complete with saw-guard, is made by Aitor, and in unissued condition. These are great knives in my opinion.
The other knife is actually a piece of kitchen/mess cutlery. The blade is etched: ‘United Service Utility Knife’ above ‘Made By Ex-Service Labour’ above ‘Sheffield’. It is also marked stainless steel. I can remember seeing these knives sometimes in kitchen drawers when I was a kid. They are a very basic knife, with an edge which is lightly serrated in sections. I don’t know the story behind them, but I imagine if your house had just been bombed, they’d be a pretty handy knife to get by with, large enough to manage most kitchen chores, and serviceable until you could get something better again.
Castleford has always had a reputation as a rough hard-drinking town, and thirty years ago it was a popular weekend destination for people from the surrounding towns and villages, hell-bent on having a good time. Saturday nights in “Cas Vegas” were a sight to behold; loud, boisterous, wild, intimidating. Hundreds of broad-chested, heavy suppin’, young miners, from scores of pit-villages, wallets fat as their accents. Cas’ lasses out on the pull, even more raucous than blokes, short skirts, white high-heels, pints of cider ‘n’ black. Rugby league fans and union men. Gallons of beer and dozens of pubs. Brawls outside chip shops. Rowdy, drunken bus rides back to one-horse towns and villages. The big night out before another week dahn t’pit.
A year-long pit strike and three decades of poverty changed the face of Castleford, as it did all the local towns. Big enough to still be standing, but nonetheless shaken. Yesterday, I think was the only time I’ve ever visited Castleford intentionally, and I expected it to have changed little since I last passed through the town. I anticipated a high street full of boarded-up shops and closed down pubs. I expected it would be like other small northern towns that have seen better days, with rheumy-eyed, sad-faced men standing smoking on dirty pavements outside run-down boozers selling cut-price ale, young girls, old before their time, pushing over-laden prams filled with sticky-faced children, and pale, skinny young men, who look like they’ve never done a day’s work, standing on street corners, up to no good.
My internet research did not give me much cause for optimism. According to most websites that cover the town at all, the number one thing to do in Castleford is “Xscape Castleford”, a sentiment I could fully appreciate, though ‘Xscape’ turns out to be a slightly-out-of-town mall, where you can do exciting things like shopping and eating a Big Mac, a bit of escapism for Castlefordians. Come to Castleford, to escape? Why bother going in the first place you might ask. But, as you have also probably guessed, the reason for the trip was my unending search for pointy treasure. And I made sure I bought a return train ticket.
The train station is in a slightly grim part of town, and the site of the abandoned ‘Baja Beach Club’ just outside it cemented my preconceived ideas about fallen Cas Vegas. As I headed towards the market though, my prejudices began to fall away. For sure, there are empty shops in the high street, as there are today in every British town, but no more than there are in swanky Leeds. The market seemed to be positively thriving. I walked around the bustling high street, and much to my liking, found several fishing tackle shops, an army surplus store, and a gun shop, just the sort of places which would have been pushed to the margins, if not into closure, in Castleford’s much bigger neighbour.
There was a bitterly cold wind blowing yesterday, and I felt sorry for the traders staffing the stalls in the outdoor ‘second-hand’ market, which was the main reason for my visit. In reality, while not a bad little market, it wasn’t much of a second-hand market, and only a few of the stalls looked like they were not managed by regular traders. It had the character of many small-town markets, with stalls selling cut-price cakes and confectionary, hats and socks and balaclavas, fruit and veg, ex-rental DVDs, and there was the obligatory cannabis paraphernalia stall, which for some reason seems to now be a stock feature of British markets. Despite the inaccurate character description given though, I still managed to find a few items to make the trip worthwhile.
With the pits long gone, I don’t know what they do for work in Castleford these days, but the folk there do seem to be faring much better than they were a decade or more ago, and while it is unlikely ever to be a pretty town, Castleford is certainly not as grim as its reputation.
And now for the knives!
Here’s what I got.
The three pen-knives are all Sheffield-made, and in good condition. The Joseph Elliot & Sons is the only one with carbon-steel blades, and it has great walk and talk. The covers are very smooth, with a very faint grain. I think they’re synthetic.
The stainless John Watts appears never to have been used.
The third pen-knife, with French ivory covers and a file-worked back spring, doesn’t carry a maker’s mark unfortunately, just ‘stainless’ above ‘Sheffield’ above ‘England’. The tip of the larger blade has been used for prying, and it shows the scars, but the knife is otherwise in good shape.
The German Army knife, complete with saw-guard, is made by Aitor, and in unissued condition. These are great knives in my opinion.
The other knife is actually a piece of kitchen/mess cutlery. The blade is etched: ‘United Service Utility Knife’ above ‘Made By Ex-Service Labour’ above ‘Sheffield’. It is also marked stainless steel. I can remember seeing these knives sometimes in kitchen drawers when I was a kid. They are a very basic knife, with an edge which is lightly serrated in sections. I don’t know the story behind them, but I imagine if your house had just been bombed, they’d be a pretty handy knife to get by with, large enough to manage most kitchen chores, and serviceable until you could get something better again.
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Elderly West Indian gentlemen sometimes add a drop of blackcurrant cordial to their Guiness or Dragon Stout, but otherwise it's disappeared from British pubs and bars. As I'm sure you know, the black in 'black 'n' tan' is Guiness or some other stout. More common here in the 1970's and earlier. Cider and Guiness was sometimes called a 'Black Velvet', but that name is more accurately given to a combination of Guiness and Champagne 
