Council-ing

For reasons far too dull to go into here, I found myself in Manchester with a couple of hours to kill.  I decided to visit some stations, because what the hell else are you meant to do in Manchester?  They haven't even opened the Airport tram line yet.

I headed to Brinnington, on the edge of Stockport.  It's on a line that forms part of a triangle of railways in the east of Manchester, with the Guide Bridge line forming the top and the Hyde section forming the side.  I'd already briefly touched this part with a visit to Bredbury, so this way I could visit the last four stations and cross off a big section of map.

Brinnington was built in the same style as Bredbury, with a warm-coloured ticket hall in brick and wood.  Unlike Bredbury, however, there was no car park and station inn.  Instead the roof was lined with sharp spikes to prevent climbing.

This was a far more down at heel area.  The houses were in corporation brick, and there was a chippy and a general store in a squat building that looked reinforced with steel.  Shutters covered half the windows.  Soon the houses were replaced by open patches of concrete with tower blocks at their centre.

My eye was caught by a motorhome with one of those strips over the windscreen - the type that says "Tracy and Brian".  This one said Free n Ezy.  Leaving aside the criminal spelling, I wondered if the owner realised he was calling whoever was in the passenger seat "easy"?  Unless that was part of the appeal.  Perhaps the motor home was a kind of mobile whore house.  On the opposite side of the road, beneath one of the towers, a man hovered in a way that looked suspicious despite his best efforts.

It used to be that you could tell who'd bought their Council house because they had a different coloured front door.  Your first action on getting a mortgage was to chuck out the corporation sanctioned door and get something with a bit of glass and style.  Now you can tell who owns their own home on an estate because they're the ones without solar panels.  I like to imagine the tenants "accidentally" wafting their new lower heating bills under the noses of the homeowners, then going inside and running all the hot taps at once just because they could.

I descended down a side road into a mass of trees.  There was a van there, with some council workers sat in the cabin eating their sandwiches.  I assumed my best "I am just out for a perambulation, my good man" air, so they wouldn't think I was cruising the woods for illicit purposes; this was fatally undermined when a few moments later I had to turn round and walk past them again because I'd taken a wrong turn.

I was entering the Reddish Vale Country Park, a long strip of green either side of the River Tame.  A nature reserve, fishing ponds and grazing space have been allowed to flourish around the water.  Horses grazed in fields while birds whirled overhead; it was hard to believe that only a few moments before I'd been on a rough estate.

I love spaces like this.  Unexpected swathes of green that slip unnoticed between houses and cars.  They're often there for the most unromantic of reasons - to provide a buffer for a motorway, as reclaimed landfill, or they're the site of old mine workings - but they're always a joy.  The cities burst with noise and panic around them and then you take a few steps and it all falls silent again.

It's also under threat.  As a way of "regenerating" Brinnington, Stockport Council has suggested selling off some of the country park for new housing.  Their logic escapes me.  Firstly, how will more houses improve people's lives?  Secondly, when has building on a country park ever been a good idea?  I'd been thinking how lucky the residents of Brinnington were.  Despite their slightly grim environs, they had all this greenery within walking distance.  How would taking away the - no doubts magnificent - views from those tower blocks and replacing them with 200 identikit roofs improve the minds of the residents?  How would it make them feel, other than even more isolated and unwanted?

I crossed over the river, past a sign from the Environment Agency warning of a chemical spill in the river making it hazardous for dogs to go in.  The city wasn't as far away as I'd thought.  I walked between low ponds with wooden jetties for fishermen, through a cluster of ducks being fed by excitable toddlers.

In the distance were the brick arches of the Hope Valley line, carrying the railway over the Tame.  I made a slight detour out of my way so that I could have a look at the underside.  It's a fantastic piece of railway architecture and completely uncelebrated; its position on a commuter line in Manchester means we take it for granted.  It's easy to forget what an impressive piece of engineering it is.

It's certainly more impressive than the low bridge that carries the Stockport to Stalybridge line through Reddish.  Robert and I visited this sad, unloved little branch a few years ago; it's baffling that a piece of perfectly adequate railway in one of the largest cities in Britain is so ignored.

I came out of the country park into the Stockport you'd expect.  Red streets of terraces at right angles to one another.  A cat eyed me from the grass outside a closed primary school.  There was a row of pound shops, and a garage, and then I saw Reddish North station, half hidden by trees on a side road.

It's retained its original station building and, more impressively, it's still in use.  Northern have refurbished it so there's a decent little ticket office and waiting area inside.

What lets it down is the sign.  GMPTE have sprung for a sign at the roadside, but it's just a generic one, with the BR logo and their symbol on it.  The actual station name is stuck on the side of the building; an afterthought.

Sidebar: that Northern Rail poster is a classic example of marketing speak doing nothing apart from pissing off the customers.  If you can't read it, the poster says:

You're saying...

"I want better value."

We're listening...

"We are installing more ticket machines at busy stations across our network.  We know your time is precious, so want to reduce your queueing time as much as possible."

Cue a hundred thousand commuters saying, "that's not actually what I meant by 'better value'."  It's someone taking a poll result and desperately manhandling it to try and get a positive.  I'm sure the people who said "I want better value" actually meant "I'd like my rather expensive train ticket to buy me more than standing space on a rickety pacer as it chugs between Liverpool and Manchester at four miles an hour."  

Speaking of rickety pacers, one soon appeared on the platform to take me to Belle Vue.  We were back to the two platforms and a bus shelter model of railway station here.

I didn't mind that so much, because I assumed Belle Vue was built for crowds.  For a century this was the home of a large entertainment complex, intended to amuse and delight the city's middle classes.  Belle Vue had a zoo, pleasure gardens, amusement arcades, lakes and ballrooms.  There were firework displays, circuses, boxing matches and exhibitions; hotels and tea rooms catered for the crowds of visitors.  It was a sort of inner-city Alton Towers.

I knew there wouldn't be much to see now.  The park's admittances declined with each passing decade.  Growing public discomfort over zoos meant that Chester, with its large open spaces, became the way forward, and Belle Vue couldn't compete.  The amusement park rides were offered for sale, one by one, and when there weren't any takers, they were demolished.  The Speedway stadium was sold to a car auction firm.  Houses were built over the sports ground.  All that remains of its pleasure ground past is a multiplex, built on the site of the main entrance, a snooker hall, and the greyhound racing track.

I knew the greyhound stadium wouldn't rival Wembley, but I was shocked to see it across the road from the station.

Concrete walls and rickety sheds; it wasn't exactly saying "a fun night out for all".  Greyhound racing outside London always seems odd anyway. It's a sport that needs an audience of bulky Cockneys with sheepskin jackets and photochromic glasses.  Mike Reid, yes; Liam Gallagher, no.  It reflected how quickly the whole Belle Vue site fell from grace.  By the time it finally closed in the early Eighties it was unmourned by most of the city, regarded as a dated blot that needed to be dealt with.

I turned left from the station, crossing the site of the former Midland Hotel (now demolished and replaced with advertising hoardings; one, incongruously, was advertising Heathrow expansion - a vital issue to this area, of course).  There was a certain amount of irony in the name Belle Vue, an irony compounded by streets named after royal palaces - Sandringham, Windsor, Balmoral.  This was a poor, underprivileged area.  It was struggling.

It was little things.  The litter on the street.  The occasional boarded up, burnt out home.  The shops selling brands you'd never heard of.  The adults strolling down the road at 2 in the afternoon, jobless. Tiny signs that added up to an area that needed help.

I turned into a tight street of social housing.  When they'd been built, cars hadn't been a consideration, and so the roadways were hopelessly narrow, with cul-de-sacs only big enough for a single vehicle to drive down at a time.  Road humps and chicanes had been introduced to try and stop joy riders.  It deterred two lads on a dirt bike, who swung into a side road at the last possible moment to try and avoid the barrier.

I passed the Estate Office - a lovely hangover from its Council days - and turned left by a row of shops; an off licence, a Chinese takeaway, and a chip shop called, somewhat bizarrely, "Fantasy".  Who has fantasies about chips?  No, wait, I know; Rule 34.  Best not to ask.

I'd reached my final station, Ryder Brow.

The GMPTE signage lingers on out here.  Transport for Greater Manchester's been in existence for three years but they can't be bothered updating the corporate look where no-one important can see it; in fact, there was a poster on the platform heralding TfGM's arrival.  The plastic case had been smashed.

Also on the platform was this slightly patronising sign.  Some trains skip the odd station along the line, and so there was a warning for drivers.  I can't help thinking it could have been phrased better.

And that was that.  Another bit of Greater Manchester tucked away.  There's still loads to go, of course, because Manchester has more railway stations than it knows what to do with.  The rest will have to wait for the next time I'm in the city with nothing to do.

On A Hyde-ing to Nothing

For reasons far too dull to go into here, I found myself in Manchester with a few hours to kill.  The natural conclusion was that I should pick some stations to collect.  But which ones?  I didn't have much time really, so I picked a connecting line - a branch which got a lesser service between two more popular routes.

The Hyde branch was ideal - three stations that I'd probably have missed if I headed for the main routes.

I'd spent the whole journey out from Piccadilly two seats in front of a man chomping his way through a pastie.  The tempting savoury aromas filled the carriage, tempting me with their pastry goodness.  The enclosed space made us all participants in his meal.  By the time I alighted my stomach was turning itself in knots, even though I'd already had lunch.

The junction where the line splits is right outside the station, rather closer than the Northern Rail map would seem to indicate.  It'd be an ideal spot for an interchange station, you'd think, but no: there are only platforms on one of the lines.  If you want to change to the other line, you have to get off here and walk a kilometre to Flowery Fields station (and no, there isn't a convenient, quick walking route between the two, perhaps following the railway line; you have to follow roads that follow a more out of the way path).  It is, in other words, a ridiculous state of affairs.

I paused in the car park for the customary station sign...

,,,then headed into Hyde.

Sun shot into my eyes, lasers bursting against my glasses.  It was a surprisingly warm day, an Autumn surprise, and I immediately regretted wearing a raincoat.  I walked south, past front gardens and small blocks of flats.

A man opened his gate and a tiny, excitable dog came running out, leading its master off on its daily walk.  A woman hurried across the street wearing her slippers and a jumper over leggings and dived into the corner shop, clearly caught out of cigarettes or milk.  Life rolled on by, a corner of Manchester ticking away.

A plain semi provided a nice shock: an elaborate - dare I say over the top? - entrance with hearts and flowers.

It looked like the exuberant home of a Hindu wedding, one of those huge affairs that celebrates every inch of the route to the temple as well as the ceremony itself.  At least I hope that's what it was.  Imagine if that's just the entrance to their house.

I crossed over the M67, getting that usual giddy feel you have when you're high above fast-moving traffic, and entered Hyde town centre properly.  It gave a great first impression if you're a transport architecture geek like me.  Hyde bus station was a tall, blue glass building that positively gleamed in the afternoon sun.

I passed the drunk swigging his Special Brew at the entrance and walked inside.  It was clean and cool, the tinted glass stopping it from becoming a greenhouse.  There weren't too many places to sit down, in case the homeless decided to get a bit too comfy, and it could have done with a little cafe, but otherwise it was a great building.

The bus station probably coloured my view of the town, if I'm honest; the glass in those windows looked blue but to me it was rosy.  I walked to the main market square, which was in the middle of being repaved and revamped.  Orange barriers shepherded pedestrians away from wet concrete.  There was a minor incident when a double decker cut the corner, just as I was about to cross; it sent the barriers flying, crushing them under its wheels, before carrying on as if nothing happened.  Inside, an old lady was making frantic gestures - I can only imagine what she was shouting at the driver.

I went into Clarendon Square, the indoor precinct, for a bottle of water.  And a visit to Greggs.  Don't blame me - blame the man on the train with the pastie putting ideas in my head.  As it was, I didn't buy any of the oh-so-tempting baked goods, settling for a prawn cocktail oval roll instead.  I took it outside and sat on a bench in the square to eat it, while pigeons loitered at my feet.  They pretended they just happened to be in the area, but I know they'd have ripped that sandwich out of my hands given half the chance.

Once I'd managed to not chuck Marie Rose sauce all over my shirt (which sounds simple enough, but trust me, it's not) I decided it was time to find the train station.  No mean feat, given that the local kids had rotated all the direction signs in the centre so that they contradicted one another.  I walked behind the town hall, past an enormous Asda which was no doubt largely to blame for the state of the town's shops.  I'd seen dozens of people pass me on the bench carrying Asda carrier bags - not so many from other stores.  I hate Asda carrier bags, incidentally; you can sort of see through them, but not quite.  They always remind me of a condom.  It makes your shopping look slightly indecent, and lets everyone else have a good nose at what you're buying.  Not a problem unless you're the respectable looking old man who passed me with a carrier filled with one bottle of shampoo and a four pack of Stella, making me think that he turns every shower into a party.

Next to Asda was a mosque which, being fairly new, didn't quite demand the respect it deserved.  It was a bit too business park office block, and the shiny green crowns looked plasticky.  I'm sure it's very practical and easy to clean though.

The train station was fringed with new bungalows and semis, the kind that appear next to lots of stations, thanks to disappearing goods yards.  There wasn't a building, just a high viaduct with a sloping car park outside.  But there was at least a totem sign.

I went up to the platform and waited for my train.

And waited.

It turns out that my train was cancelled.  I found this out thanks to an app on my phone.  I wouldn't have known otherwise because there were no announcements.  There were no information signs.  And obviously, there wasn't a ruddy cheeked stationmaster to tell us.

Damn you, Northern Rail.  Damn you.

Basically, we were on our own.  Our one train an hour wasn't going to turn up and none of us waiting for the train were being informed.

This is, quite frankly, a shambles.  I've been to tiny stations in the middle of the countryside that have had announcements about the next train.  It's not difficult, in this, the twenty-first century.  It's just a few wires and a couple of loudspeakers.  It's appalling that a station in one of the largest cities in the country is so undervalued.

I suppose it's down to priorities.  Merseytravel have standards that they expect Merseyrail to maintain, things like staffed stations.  They're peering down the neck of the franchise holder and making sure they comply.  However, Merseytravel doesn't have a nice tram system to run as well.  That's where TfGM's heart lies - I very much doubt that tram passengers are left in the dark if a service is cancelled.  Second on their list are bus services, as Hyde's nice terminus shows.  And then, right down the bottom, are rail services, which are pretty much left to do whatever they want.  Time and again in Manchester I'd found a couple of empty platforms, nowhere to buy a ticket, a draughty shelter, and that was it.  When it works, I guess you don't care, but now I was experiencing the downside of this lazy approach.

Yes, I know that Northern Rail are the people who actually run the station, but I already have low expectations for them.  They're a privatised rail company, and so they're not going to do anything that they don't have to.  Providing services to their passengers would just eat into the profits.  TfGM, on the other hand, are meant to be taking care of the transport needs of the city's residents, and are paid directly by those residents to do so.  Railway passengers are people too!

With an hour to kill, my thoughts naturally turned to the murder of my fellow travellers.  I didn't know why the train had been delayed; there could have been a devastating terrorist incident, or a horrific virus released, or a meteorite could have crashed into Gorton.  We could be the last few people on earth and, since repopulating it was out (since I didn't have the inclination and the only ladies present were beyond up-the-duffery), I had to decide which one I'd eat to survive.

Clearly the two pensioners were out; their stringy old flesh would be deeply unpleasant.  The quite buff young lad also had to be excluded as it looked like he worked out.  His meat would be all muscle - nice to look at, not so nice to chew on.  So it was either the trim lady in the red coat or the middle aged man reading a Metro.  I decided the woman would be the best bet; she looked like she had some good fat reserves squirrelled away in places I probably wasn't meant to notice, and she looked like she'd taken care of herself. The man, on the other hand, was reading the Metro, so he clearly didn't have great ideas about self-improvement - while there might be a lot of flesh under that blue duffel coat, I expected it would be unpleasant to look at and quite gristly.

By the time I'd ranked them one to five in order of dining preference and wondered if perhaps my doctor should ramp up my meds, an hour had passed and the train had turned up.  Obviously there was no apology for the cancellation of the previous service, because this was a different train and therefore a tabula rasa.  Don't tar it with the same brush as its predecessor just because they both have nice purple bodies.

Woodley raised me up again after the bitterness of Hyde Central.  We had trees, and a pretty footbridge, and a nice little side street location.

The rest of the suburb was pretty decent, too.  It reminded me of Sundon Park, where I grew up.  Quiet streets, a school, a playground.  It was gone four o'clock now and parents were walking their children home.  Those kids loved it now, would find it deathly dull as teenagers, and have a strange hankering for it as adults.  That's the strange alchemy of the suburb.

Grass verges at the centre of a pleasant shopping precinct.  There were a few empty shops, but nothing depressing.  A little girl skipped past me, completely in a world of her own.

There was a darkness at the centre of this halcyon world.  For starters, I counted half a dozen pubs, meaning that the residents are either wild party animals or drinking the pain away.  Either way I bet it's no fun on a Friday night.

Even more disturbing, a dog grooming salon advertised "Puppy Parties" every Saturday afternoon - a party with a groom!  Book early - places are limited!  There was a poster in the window which featured these dogs in hats:

This may be the most depressing thing I have ever seen.

Fortunately Bredbury station, at the other end of the village, is bloody marvellous.  (As you know I rarely use profanity so you can tell how fucking amazing it must have been).

That is, you may be aware, a STATION.  A proper station with doors and everything.  I was so excited I practically skipped up the steps.

The building was constructed in the Seventies, and it's got the same practical, there's-an-oil-crisis-so-let's-build-something-decent-but-not-too-fancy feel to it that the underground stations in Liverpool have.  There are windows though, and a ticket office (though there was no-one behind the counter - tea break?) and, weirdly, a turnstile.

It was a bit baffling; if there's no way of putting your ticket in, what purpose does it serve?  I just pushed through without being checked.  Perhaps it's counting passengers.  It was nice hearing it click-click-click as I headed for the platform, though.

The delights kept coming.  Wooden ceilings, warm, enclosed waiting rooms on each platform.  A Victorian footbridge that was preserved when they built the new one.  Even a canopy over the platform to protect you from the rain, a small, civilised touch that's often forgotten in new station builds.

It's even being refurbished.  How do I know this?  There were workmen in the car park doing... something.  But perhaps more pertinently, I got purple paint on my leg from the recently redone bench.

Damn you, Northern Rail.  Damn you.