Electronica

I do love a gadget.  I love anything that's computerised and miniaturised and has flashing lights and possibly an LED screen on it.  My house is full of useless gizmos and expensive baubles that no longer work because they had a special charging cable or need Windows ME.

You can imagine how thrilled I was when I worked out that I could go entirely paper free for my trip from Liverpool to Eccles.  A few taps on the Northern app, and I had an electronic ticket sitting there and waiting to go.

It's all very exciting.  I was slightly anxious as I approached the ticket gates at Lime Street, wondering if they'd easily accommodate the e-ticket, but a flick to the barcode and a press against the viewers and I was through.  If anything it was quicker than the paper version.

A while later I got off the train at Eccles, home of the cake and namesake of Ken Barlow's dog.  An Eastern European woman got off the train with me, and immediately asked me where the Metrolink was.  (She said it like that, incidentally; not tram, but Metrolink, her accent catching on the tro).  I told her to turn left out of the station and keep walking.  As always, the minute she walked away, I doubted myself, and hoped I hadn't just sent her wandering into a dodgy estate.

Has Eccles gone upmarket recently?  The last time I was here, in 2014, I'd found it a grimy and unfriendly little place.  Now it seemed far more vibrant and exciting.  Right outside the station was a coffee shop with the curious name of  The Malaga Drift Coffee Company, and then beyond was a series of interesting, intriguing little shops.  They seemed cared for and well-loved.  Across the way was a small real ale place with a map of the Northern rail network on its back wall; sadly it was too early for a pint.

 
Outside the church - which again, seemed much more open and well-scrubbed than on my last visit - I spotted Eccles' tribute to the late Princess Diana.  How appropriate that I found this memorial as we approach the 20th anniversary of her passing, and I'm sure she was deeply touched to see that the youth of the town thought the best way to memorialise her was with a rock.

I wonder who's still leaving flowers for Lady Di?  I bet they read the Daily Express.

It turned out I had sent the lady at the station in the right direction and, at the bottom of the pedestrianised section, I found Eccles tram stop.

Eccles was the very first Metrolink extension.  Between here and Manchester city centre are Salford Quays, the large area of disused docklands that were prime redevelopment material in the Eighties and Nineties.  Trams sprinkled a bit of transportation glamour over the development, with a nice terminus in an area that needed better links with the city as a bonus, and so the new line was opened as far as Broadway in 1999, and then on to Eccles a year later.  The Wikipedia page says that Tony Blair, when cutting the ribbon, said that Metrolink was "exactly the kind of transport scheme needed to solve the transport problems of the metropolitan areas of the country"; he then refused to actually build any, so that's politicians for you.

It's officially Eccles Interchange, because there's a bus station right next door, but that's not what the signs say.

Once again I was living in the future; a few taps on my phone using the MyGetMeThere app (...don't get me started) and I'd bought a day pass for the trams.  This was the first time I'd ever traveled on multiple forms of transport and been entirely paperless throughout.  It was incredibly easy, and something I'd happily do a lot more.  (Meanwhile Merseytravel are looking at maybe, possibly, letting you put money on a Walrus card online.  By the time they get that system up and working, we'll all be traveling on the HyperLoop using tickets on microchips implanted into our forearms).

The tram took off and passed down and under the busy Ladywell roundabout in a brief but thrilling bit of tunnel.  On the other side was Ladywell stop, and I got off barely a minute after getting on board.  You don't get much of a chance to sit down when you're tram stop collecting.

Ladywell has a Park and Ride attached to it and it's signposted with a remnant of the old turquoise Metrolink corporate identity.  It's only when you see it in situ, next to the yellow and grey, that you realise how dated the old logo was.

I crossed the busy road and walked towards the next stop.  It was a chain of industrial units to my right, tool hire, decorator's yards, trade counters.  On my left, housing association flats, their bin stores tight with padlocks.  They were just about separated from the carriageway by a strip of grass verge, but I hope they have thick double glazing.  In the distance, the blade of the Beetham Tower seemed to beckon you into the city.

The road passed over the freight line to the quays and past the council depot.  At a pedestrian crossing, as I waited to go, a tram went swishing past, through the lights on its own special signal.  I reached Weaste stop as it left, but it didn't matter; there would be another in a few minutes.  The reliability of good transportation.

There was a familiar block of flats behind the tram stop.  Last time I'd come to Eccles, I'd spent a pleasant afternoon meeting friend of the blog Phil for the first and, as it turned out, last time.  I'm rubbish at being a friend.  I don't have the confidence to just say, "hey, fancy a pint?"  Even as a kid, I never knocked on other people's doors to say "coming out?" - I waited for people to knock on mine.  I get anxious about it.  What if they say no?   What if they don't want to?  What if they thought I was awful?  There's also the difficult second album syndrome - I'll have used up all my tried and tested anecdotes in my first encounter, if it went well, so a second encounter means I have to come up with new stuff.  It's awkward.  I'm awkward.  I couldn't even nip in and say hello to Phil there and then; he's moved about three times since.  It's nothing personal.  I'm just a terrible human being.

The tram stop quietly filled up.  A man and his daughter, hunched on the bench, awkwardly chatting.  A couple who hid behind the hedges so they could kiss some more.  A student with earphones rammed in tight wearing a mix of riotous colours.  The tram came in and took us off again.

What to say about Langworthy tram stop?  It was there.  Two platforms and next tram indicators and a bit of seating.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  I originally started station collecting because I like station buildings, so the tram stops of Metrolink are a big whole of nothing for me.

I crossed the tracks - always tinged with excitement and guilt - and headed down Langworthy Road, a long straight heading to the Quays.  Thick wodges of tree screened off the carriageway from the business units behind.  There were no other pedestrians, just me and a stream of cars and lorries.  The only point of interest was FutureSkills at MediaCityUK - the random capitalisation is not my fault - which proclaimed itself in large letters by the side of the road.  I couldn't actually work out what it was, though, and I had to Google to discover it was a college.  Call me old-fashioned, but I feel like the word "College" should've been in there somewhere.

Up until now, the trams had shared the carriageway with the cars, but at Broadway they went off into their own trackway.

On the opposite platform was a young lad - presumably a student from the college - who seemed incredibly excitable.  He was shadowboxing, then shadow-kicking, then he ran back and forth, up and down the slope of the platform.  I'd like to think he was just filled with the joys of a summer morning, but I have a feeling it was more chemical based.

I'd hoped to end today's tram journeys at MediaCityUK's stop, accessed via a triangular junction beyond Broadway, but that's only in use in peak time.  Instead, my tram turned left, depositing me at Harbour City.  Above me another vast apartment block was taking shape.

Of course, since I was in the area, I had to wander down to the Quays.  One of the Universities was having its graduation ceremony at the Lowry and the plaza was filled with proud parents and embarrassed students trying to slope off for a pint.  I was on the look out for someone famous, in the same way I am whenever I pass Broadcasting House; surely there had to be at least one 5 Live presenter nipping out for a coffee?  Not a one.  It was very disappointing.

I wandered around the plaza for a little bit, but there's not actually much there.  The Blue Peter Garden was already full of people taking pictures, so that leaves you with the back of the Coronation Street set and the Tardis inside one of the studio buildings.  It's an office complex with the tiniest sheen of showbiz glamour.

And there's surprisingly little to it.  Go back one street, past the gleaming Booths, and MediaCityUK falls away remarkably quickly.  Back there it's still 1980s office blocks and industrial units, entirely unaffected by the presence of the BBC Breakfast sofa.  The minute you can't see the water in the docks, the land values drop precipitously.  It doesn't feel like real regeneration; it's superficial.  It's been shipped in.

I was back at Broadway stop, about to get the return Eccles tram, when I realised I hadn't got the sign pic at Harbour City.  I'd been so excited at the slim chance of seeing Business Steph I'd entirely forgotten why I was there.  Such a media tart.

I rushed back round the corner to the slightly clunky and dated environs of Harbour City for a picture and a tram.  The buildings here are in that exact sweet spot where they look both new and old-fashioned, before their style comes back.  Next to the gleaming steel and grey towers they seem provincial.  Salford Quays is a strange mix of buildings and styles and purpose; I looked forward to coming back and exploring properly.

Ghost Town

Patricroft sounds like a posh ingredient for a hand soap.  "Made from the finest ingredients - lavender, ylang-ylang and patricroft."  Something from Crabtree & Evelyn - none of your tat.  It promises luxury and decadence.

If Patricroft was actually a hand soap, it would be more like Asda Smart Price Hand Scrub, the stuff that's basically washing-up liquid in a different bottle.  It's empty and unloved.  Peeling white painted walls line silent platforms.  Brick shelters, illuminated by strip lights, may as well be renamed "murder kiosks".

To be fair, Patricroft has a great deal of history in its favour.  The station is on the Liverpool to Manchester Railway, the first intercity service in the world, and it's at the point where the line crosses the Bridgewater Canal, the first canal in England; it's a confluence of major transport firsts.  It's a shame that there's not much there to show for it.

There used to be a station building here, but it was demolished in the Eighties, along with the power depot to the rear.  What's left is a small pavement area which, at a push, you could call a plaza.  I trotted out into the paved area, ready with my camera to take my sign pic, only to stop and have the same reaction as my spiritual twin, Liz Lemon:

There were three boys loitering beneath the station sign.  Aged somewhere between 14 and 19, they wore tracksuits and baseball caps and gold chains.  One had a skateboard that he idly kicked back and forth, while another was sitting on the little wall around the flower bed and smoking.  I felt a ripple of fear, the unavoidable consequence of being both old enough to be their dad and a massive nerd, and decided I couldn't possibly arse around trying to take a selfie with their young, judgemental eyes watching me.  They were bound to laugh.  And point.  And possibly use slang terms that I didn't understand.

I went somewhere I thought they couldn't follow, not unless they had some kind of fake ID: the pub.  Opposite the entrance to the Nasmyth Business Park, just beneath a banner advertising "Krav Maga: The Israeli Martial Art", was a side road leading up to the Queen's Arms.  This is no ordinary pub.  The Queen's Arms opened in 1828 as the Patricroft Tavern in the hope that they could profit from the new trains.  As such, it's got a fair claim to being the world's first railway tavern.

In 1851, Queen Victoria took a train from Liverpool to Patricroft, then changed to a barge on the canal to travel to the Earl of Ellesmere's estate.  It's said that she used the Patricroft Tavern's facilities, and so they changed the pub's name in her honour.  I'm not sure what they mean by "used the facilities"; I hope it means she had a pint of bitter and a hotpot, and not that she nipped to the ladies.

I'll never know; the damn place was closed.  It turns out the Queens Arms only opens in the evenings during the week.  How ludicrous.  I can sort of accept that little village pubs in the Yorkshire Dales don't have the custom to open during the day, but this pub is in Salford.  Surely there are plenty of alcoholics and/or lonely pensioners with nothing else to spend their money on in the area?

It meant a sheepish walk back to Patricroft station for the sign picture.  But how to take it without catching the interest of the local ragamuffins?  The answer is to take a very bad picture at a sufficient distance, then leg it before they notice.

There is DEFINITELY a station sign in there.  Honest.  In fact there are two.

See?

I dashed off at a speed that was a little bit too fast, while behind me, the youths paid absolutely no attention whatsoever.  Beyond was a tight estate of housing association flats and maisonettes, matched over the road by new builds (no doubt on the site of some demolished factories).  At Police Street, the former station had been turned into a new apartment block, given the unpromising name of the Shackles.  The attractive stone frontage was now backed up by a bland box.

I turned left at Cosmo Bingo (formerly the Palladium Cinema) and entered Shakespeare Crescent.  An old school had been turned into flats, and a mechanics' workshop was closed and barred; by this point I was starting to wonder if anything in Eccles was still used for its original purpose.  An impressive brick tower scraped at the sky in the distance, like a mini mill chimney.

Closer inspection revealed a grand stone tablet on the side to commemorate the Public Baths Extension; disappointingly, it was unveiled by a Councillor, not an Alderman.  I always like it when it's an Alderman.

Sadly it was another Eccles public building that had been turned over to a new purpose.  There were flats in the extension (raising the pleasing image of people swimming to their front doors) and a community centre hosting a Macmillan coffee morning in the centre.  The fine tile work reading "MALES" and "FEMALES" remained, but one of the doors had been blocked up, and an ugly wheelchair ramp blotted the front.

A Drill Hall, the faded lettering on the top declaring Defence Not Defiance, was also abandoned and for sale.  It left me feeling melancholy.  Like the town would have closed up forever, only they heard I was coming so they pretended some of the buildings were still useful.  I left Shakespeare Crescent for the busier Liverpool Road, in the hope that the traffic and pedestrians would bring a bit of life to the place.  It was a stream of small low-class shops, some of them turned into weird projects (the "Redeemed Christian Church of God Wisdom Centre" in what looked like an old bank), others adapting to the changed demographics of the area.  There was a Polish supermarket with a photograph of a chirpy looking lady in national dress on the door, and a barber advertising a Turkish shave.  Further on, the local mosque was emptying after the early afternoon prayers; neatly dressed Muslim men spilled out across the road, shaking hands, dashing to the bus stop.  The restaurant across the way was taking advantage of the rush of customers.  Rather than open up the full kitchen, a table had been erected on the back entrance, and two women were selling freshly made samosas for two pounds.

I cut in front of some friendly looking 1950s flats, set amongst their own lawns, and reached a strip of new paving which heralded the town centre.  Some great Victorian buildings had been augmented by newer, uglier additions, while a half-empty shopping centre skulked beneath a multi-storey car park.

I'd hoped to buy an Eccles cake.  I was in Eccles Town Centre; surely there must be a little bakery still churning out the traditional recipe?  Nope.  Not a one.  In fact, Eccles cakes aren't even made in Eccles any more - the factory for the main producer is now in Ashton, on the other side of Manchester.  Even the surprisingly posh Greggs (brick effect walls and black and white photographs) didn't sell them.

I headed for the churchyard, not in search of spiritual enlightenment - the drunks getting wasted on the bench would stop that - but in search of HUSKISSON!  Long-term blog readers (hello you!) will remember my dogged pursuit of references to William Huskisson, former Liverpool MP and the first man to be killed by a train.  Huskisson's leg was run over on the track just outside Newton-le-Willows, and it was decided that he was in too serious a condition to be taken all the way to Manchester for medical attention.  Instead, he was taken to the parsonage at Eccles, as a half-way point, and the doctor came out to him.  Sadly he died the next morning.

Surely there'd be a plaque, or a memorial, or a statue or something?  Nothing.  Not a mention.  And the church was closed and locked, so I couldn't even go in and have a poke around.  I thought back to that tiny village church in Scotland that was open for anyone to walk in and look round, even though it was miles from anywhere.

Basically, Eccles was a bust.  It was an unwelcoming, sad little town.  It has two good points.  The first is the Metrolink, which terminates in the town centre alongside Morrison's.  Trams make everything better.

The second is Phil, long time reader of the blog, who lives not far out of the town centre in a very nice flat.  I went round there and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and gossiping, and it was easily the most pleasant part of the whole trip.

Even Eccles station was a mess.  Phil dropped me off for my train back to Liverpool, and I found a load of building works and a low, ugly ticket office.

Fair enough; it's in the process of getting a new forecourt.  And the original wooden station building burnt down in the Seventies.  But compared with the gleaming glass of the Metrolink/bus exchange, this little box squeezed behind the M602 was a let down.  It's part of the world's oldest railway system, remember; it's where Huskisson came to die; it should be a little bit impressive.  Manchester's suggestion that the line be declared a World Heritage Site for its historical importance seems rather hollow when you look at the stations within the county boundary.  Liverpool and Merseyside have Edge Hill and Rainhill and Newton-le-Willows and Broadgreen; historic sites with well-reserved railway buildings and features.  Greater Manchester can offer up Patricroft and Eccles, neither of which are attractive or particularly historic.

The Friend of Eccles Station (or, as they're more brilliantly known, FRECCLES) have put up some posters detailing the line's history, but I sadly didn't have enough time to read them.  I did get a good look at the gantries for the coming electric trains though, and fantasised about the day when I'll be able to take a fast, quiet train here.

Then a Pacer rattled up, and spoilt everything.