Yorkshire Post

I was rooting for you Bradford; we were all rooting for you.

I last visited the city in 2013, arriving at Bradford Interchange and crossing the city to Bradford Forster Square.  I found a gorgeous mass of Victoriania, fine, proud buildings and a busy city centre.  I also found a big hole in the ground.  A load of buildings had been demolished for a new Westfield shopping centre but a lack of finances meant that nothing was built.  In 2013, they'd made it into a bit of a park, just to try and make the best of a bad situation.

Now, though...

I mean, at least it's not a hole any more.  That's something, I suppose.  But that's the beginning and end of everything nice I can say about the Broadway shopping centre.

It's just a mall.  That's it.  It's just a shiny floor, glass roof, straight avenue mall.  It's a shopping centre that could have been built at any time in the last forty years; only the shops would change.  It's pedestrianised walkways with a roof on the top.  It's crap.

I thought we'd moved on from this, these shopping ghettos that close up swathes of our city centres and suck investment away.  Liverpool One manages to sew itself into the city and create a new district; it's open 24 hours, it's a thoroughfare.  It's interesting architecture too - different faces and styles to keep you interested.  Broadway's just a box.  They've plonked a box in the middle of Bradford city centre.  In the 21st century.  This is the view that Bradford Forster Square's two million passengers get as they enter the city centre:

Beautiful, I'm sure you'll agree.  Outside, 1960s precincts were being demolished for a cinema and restaurants.  A Brutalist office block had acquired a plate glass ground floor ready for - I don't know, a Wetherspoons?  A Nandos?  A Hungry Horse?  Some kind of crappy chain  restaurant where the branches number into the hundreds.

I don't blame Bradford's elders.  It's Leeds' little brother, cowering in its shadow, and over the past few decades the flow of money away from Bradford has just got stronger.  They were just happy that someone, anyone, wanted to spend money in their city.  It's just a shame they couldn't find someone who'd make it better, or had the bravery to fight the Westfield elites and get them to build something with a bit of spark and vigour.

My route to Interchange was still lined with those fine Victorian buildings, but they looked sadder now; there seemed to be a lot more empty storefronts.  A lot of big names moved from the traditional shopping centre into Broadway.  It sucks up the money and leaves the pleasant, walkable city centre a husk for pound shops and bookies.

The City Park still impressed, particularly the long wing of a bus exchange on one side, and then there were the little tented roofs of Bradford Interchange and my train to New Pudsey.

There is no such place as New Pudsey, by the way.  There's Pudsey, the place (and yes, that's where the Children In Need bear gets his name from: his creator was from the town).  The "new" part was purely because it was a new station, though since it opened in 1967, perhaps it's time to drop that part.  In fact, since it's a mile from Pudsey town centre, maybe it's time to rename the whole shebang.  (To further add to its showbiz credentials, New Pudsey station once appeared in Monty Python.  There's a close up of the sign and everything.)

At platform level, New Pudsey's pretty standard - couple of platforms, some ramps, a shelter.  It's been done up since the Monty Python days.  Up top though, there was a real shock.

An actual ticket office.  Well, I never thought I'd see the like.  It's a new one too.  Which begs the question: why aren't there more manned stations in West Yorkshire?  Why weren't Kirkstall Forge and Apperley Bridge built with them?  I couldn't see anything special about New Pudsey.

The presence of a ticket hall - and even more, a man actually checking tickets - left me a little discombobulated.  The design of the station didn't help.  There was an expanse of car park, every space filled, but I couldn't quite see how to get out if you were a pedestrian.  Fortunately, I spotted a young mum and her excited toddler disappearing down a footpath which went in the direction I needed to go, so I followed her.

The path followed the railway line, descending beneath a tree-lined embankment, before rising up to drop me in the car park of an absolutely enormous Asda.  They're a local company, founded in Knottingley and with the HQ still in Leeds, and I wonder if that's meant the city planners have given them a bit of leeway in the planning department.  This was less a supermarket, more a small planet; if you were holed up in here during a Dawn of the Dead-style zombie rampage, you'd be quite happy for at least six months.

Cowering in the shadow of the Asda was a very Eighties-looking Marks and Spencer, which was handy, because I needed the loo, and if nothing else, M&S always have decent toilets.  I was mid-pee when it suddenly came to me.

I hadn't taken a sign picture at New Pudsey.

I'd been so busy trying to find a way out I hadn't thought to look for a sign.  Nine years I've been doing this blog.  Nine years, and I still forget one of its central tenets.  I am a fool and an imbecile.

I washed my hands and barreled out of the shop, back the way I came, past two girls whose see-through carrier bag exposed their only purchase from Asda to be a bottle of rose wine.  I huffed back the half a mile to New Pudsey station, and found the other exit round the back of the ticket office.  There was the station sign, a bit grubby, but essential.

I didn't fancy hitting that footpath for a third time, so instead I crossed the tracks and headed for the Bradford Road.  In the process I may have missed some of the more charming parts of Pudsey, and for that, I apologise.  I walked along the traffic-choked road, past sandwich shops and wedding gown shops and anonymous industrial units and car dealerships.  It was grimy and gritty.

The most interesting part of the route was Leeds' own Cycle Superhighway, a separated off bike lane on both sides of the road.  It had been done properly too, with separate kerbs and those bus shelter bypasses that diamondgeezer is obsessed with.

The only thing it was missing was cyclists.  I walked along two miles of the Cycle Superhighway, and I saw a single cyclist on it, right towards the end.  He wasn't wearing a helmet and he was about fifty, so I'm guessing he wasn't Leeds' version of Sir Chris Hoy.  Well done for trying though.

Past the railway arches, the industry got patchier, dodgier looking: dark and grime splattered.  Yards and hand painted arrows guiding you round the back of takeaways - the Pizza Palace, Mr Khans (yes I know there should be an apostrophe, I'm just reporting what I saw).  An Asian restaurant whose car park doubled as a hand car wash during the week, a banner dangling above the weeds: Mega Buffet - Biggest Buffet In Yorkshire.  The pictures alongside this ambitious claim may have been food - the sun had bleached them into indistinguishable orange slop in square troughs.

The Conservative Club was now a cafe, the local Tories presumably now meeting in a single booth in a Starbucks.  Not that the right wing didn't still have a toehold in the area - a scrap metal merchant flew a UKIP banner, still urging passers by to vote leave and "take our country back!".  I wondered how that was going for him, how the business of recycling iron had improved since June 24th.  The Pavillion Business Centre, meanwhile, was just depressing; a charming Art Deco cinema frontage wedged onto of a load of units, preserved but unloved.

I caught a tantalising snatch of conversation as I walked past a bus stop - a neat Asian girl forcefully barking into her mobile, "she's a fucking bitch, she really is, and you KNOW why" (no, I don't, please tell me!) - then I took a detour by a fire station.  Sliced up cars were abandoned in the car park, the remnants of Jaws of Life practice sessions.

I'd spotted a name on Google Maps earlier, and, even though it was off my route, I just had to go there.  Look at it:

Intercity Way!  I imagined a road devoted to railway construction, dripping with history.  Perhaps a cabin from a 125 to herald the entrance.  What I actually found was a tedious industrial road and the entrance to a Bestway Cash and Carry.  There wasn't even a sign for me to gurn in front of.

Disappointed, I went back to the main road, which had turned a lot more suburban.  There were homes and shops at the side of the road now, instead of abandoned warehouses and burnt out pubs, and the business units were anonymous offices and the odd antiques dealer flying a rainbow flag.

I'm not sure what it is about Bramley station, but I find it entirely forgettable.  I literally just had to zoom through the pictures then to remind myself what it was called.  It's not the station's fault, it's just anonymous.  Another couple of bland platforms with a sign that promises routes it can't fulfill:

Good luck getting that train to Blackpool from there.

I really should have nicer things to say about Bramley because it was the last station in West Yorkshire I will ever visit.  It was the last time I'd be heading to the lovely Leeds station (as if the Gods knew to make my last trip there memorable, I saw Northern's Managing Director Alex Hynes while I was there - no, of course I didn't say hello, I'm far too shy.  Besides, what would I say?  "I really like your stations.  Have you got any freebies?").  It's another chapter of this blog closed.

(Actually, no it isn't, because I just remembered Low Moor station is on the map and supposedly opening in the autumn.  So just ignore that last paragraph).

New Territories

There's a couple more on their way down the pipe - Low Moor and Ilkeston, for starters - but right now, the newest railway station in the UK is Kirkstall Forge.  It opened on the 19th June, after what seemed like years of delays.

Of course, it's not completely new, because nothing on the UK rail network ever is.  There was a Kirkstall Forge station that closed in 1905, when a realignment of the tracks meant it would have to be rebuilt, and nobody could be bothered.  It took just 111 years for the station to reopen, which is good news for towns still suffering from the after-effects of Beeching - another sixty years and you'll be sorted!

I was the only person to get off the train, which wasn't really a surprise.  For decades this spot was occupied by industry - the ironworks that gave the station the "forge" part of its name.  That finally closed in 2002 and has been cleared to become a "new community".  It's still a fair way off actually happening though.

Two liftshafts; that was the only sign of the urban village yet to come.  The hoardings promised that these were the first phase of a Grade A office development, opening Autumn 2017, but the site seemed quiet.  The only workmen I saw were a pair of signwriters pasting slogans on the boards around the site.  It used to be that you could sell a housing development by putting up a sign and saying "these houses are quite nice, do you fancy buying one?"  Now they're packaging up a lifestyle.  One of the boards promised the development was:

For all the towpath strollers, the lounge-at-homers 

The joggers, bloggers and woodland roamers

The commuters, empire builders and business risk takers

See?  It's more than just a housing estate!

To be fair, what they've done so far seems to be of high quality.  The station's black overbridge is sleek and different, though they've not bothered with a ticket office; it's completely unstaffed.  The car park seemed busy too.

Outside, there were iron benches - no doubt built out of Chinese metal - and high quality paving alongside the river Aire.  At some point, there will be terraces for families to stroll and promenade, but right now it was just a load of steelwork dangling off the side of the river bank.

It all seemed very optimistic and jolly but the nagging thought registered at the back of my head: what will they all do?  The forge employed hundreds of workers: two office blocks and a couple of restaurants will be a fraction of that.  It's pouring people into a space and hoping they've already got jobs somewhere else.  I guess that's why the station is here; to take you away to your job in Leeds or Bradford.  This place will just be somewhere to sleep.  A vaguely apt bit of marketing speak was the last thing I saw as I left the Forge site:

Start a new journey 

let curiosity be your guide 

Open your mind, arms and heart 

to new places and new people

I'm not sure the BF would be too keen on me opening up my arms to new people.  He's already convinced I have a secret lover in Leeds because I've spent so much time getting trains there.

The Leeds I saw outside the site was much more to my taste: a mix of old and new, unpretentious.  Stone walled gardens and the occasional close of tight homes - though they could do with a bit of imagination on the streetname front:

I slipped into the centre of Horsforth, a busy strip of shops and cafes.  Workmen were parked up to get sandwiches from Subway.  An old couple, charged with looking after their granddaughters in the summer holidays, held hands as the girls played stepping stones on bollards.  There was a nice surprise - a gold postbox for Alistair Brownlee, the triathlete.  The Rio Olympics had been reminding me of how great Britain had seemed during 2012, how optimistic and happy and welcoming we were, instead of the nasty self-destructive nation we are in 2016.  Things are so grim now I wouldn't have been surprised to see that the gold post box had been melted down for scrap.

On the far side of town were the restaurants, an Indian, the Istanbul Grill, one that promised both Greek and Turkish cuisine, which shows that food can unite even the most entrenched enemies.  It was all very pleasant, but I was busy being annoyed by a bus route.  In amongst the traffic were buses named "The Pulse".  I quite like these branded bus routes - it's not just the number 12, it's the Galactic Thruster or some such.  It's a bit of colour.  What annoyed me about the branding was the wording on the front:

Up to every 10 minutes or better.  Well, which is it?  Is there a bus up to every ten minutes - a maximum of six an hour - or is there an even better service than that?  BECAUSE IT CAN'T BE BOTH.  Honestly, that slogan set my teeth on edge every time it went by, and since there was a bus up to every 10 minutes or better, that was a lot of frustrated grinding.

I turned onto the A6120, Leeds' ring road; on the opposite side of the city, this is the road that passes right by Cross Gates station.  Here it was just a long straight road between green fields and trees.  Semi-rural, if you ignore the scream of cars and motorbikes; a bird of prey circling overhead, the body of a fox by the side of the road, its fur still orange and vibrant.

There was a van by the side of the road, selling flowers out of buckets, and I did my best to ignore it.  My heart is mostly a lump of impenetrable marble, but there are some things that can cut straight to its centre.  Battersea Dogs Home is one.  Another is anything that involves people selling things by the side of the road.  I find it heartbreaking, the person just waiting, hoping, that you'll buy some of their wares, as a thousand cars stream by.  It's why I always have to fast forward through Feed the Birds in Mary Poppins; that poor old lady has spent her life sat there, waving bags of crumbs around, making meagre pennies and... if you'll excuse me, I just need to leave the blog for a moment or two.

Phew.  There's another instance of roadside peddling in Goldfinger, and that one's got children in it, which makes me even more uncomfortable.  Goldfinger buys what looks like a Scotch egg off them and then gets back in his Rolls-Royce while some peasant girl holds a bit of lavender hopefully.  It's the hope that gets me.  Oh dear.  I need another break.

Speaking of 007, it seems that he's keeping himself busy between films, because there was a sign by the side of the road for the Bond Letting Agency:

I'm pretty sure that's not an officially licensed (to kill) tie in, and I feel like I should inform the Ian Fleming estate and Barbara Broccoli about this gross violation of copyright.  It did lead me off on a mental path of wondering what a James Bond estate agent would be like, though: some poor family looking for a nice three bed semi and being told the closest they have is a Ken Adam-designed concrete modernist apartment with split levels and a lot of sharp angles.  "Yes, I know the piranha tank isn't ideal for young children, but there is a school with an Outstanding Ofsted rating just round the corner, so..."

I left the ring road to wander through the charming village of Calverley.  It was as English as you could get: pretty pubs, winding lanes, trees.  There were public gardens, with a plaque to let you know the iron railings were put in to commemorate the Queen Mother's 100th birthday.  I'm sure she was thrilled.  A4 laser printed signs advertised the cricket club's open weekend - live music, bouncy castle, ice creams.  It said there would be a Guinness World Record attempt: I looked it up, and apparently they did 734 overs in 8 hours.  I've no idea what an over is, or whether that's an impressive feat of endurance, but well done.  (Also, can we go back to calling it the Guinness Book of Records?)

I mounted the hill, then descended down the other side, away from Leeds and into Bradford.  You couldn't tell the difference, to be honest, it was just a sign halfway along the road, but I'm sure it was very important to the locals which side of the border they were on.  Apperley Bridge was a little less charming than Calverley, but it had an Asda and a Sainsbury's, so you know, it wasn't all bad.  It was definitely more working class than Calverley; the liberal club had a washing line in its front yard with the tea towels hanging out to dry, which I quite liked.

That church, incidentally, had this banner on the railings outside:

I'm sure Ladies' Evening is actually dedicated to gender-based discussions of scripture, but that saucepot gives a very different impression.  She looks like she's discussing the filthy secrets of the verger's wife and dropping in a few scandalous hints that Mrs Finnemore's hair colour came out of a bottle.  Basically I want to go for an evening of wine drinking with her, and I don't mean the Communion type.

The space by the canal that had once been filled by factories and warehouses had now been colonised by town houses and apartments.  Tall, hefty blocks in yellow stone.  They looked decent enough, even if the undulating landscape had forced them into some odd positions to find level ground.  Their gardens overlooked the water, a wonderful spot for your afternoon tea.

I was getting a bit peckish myself.  It was late lunchtime, and I hadn't eaten since a raisin Danish on the train over (yes, of course I went First Class).  I thought about eating at a cafe by the bridge, but its awning had "expresso" written on it, so that ruled that out; I thought about a pub close to the station, but it had a blackboard inviting Christmas bookings, so that ruled that out.  Some might say that I was being fussy; I just like to give my custom to businesses with good standards.  Instead I just headed for the railway station, past the overgrown remains of Crag Road FC.  I may not know much about football, but I do know you can't play on a pitch covered in foot high weeds, so I'm guessing they're not at Premier League level.

Apperley Bridge is almost as new as Kirkstall Forge; the two stations got funding at about the same time, but Apperley Bridge's construction was easier, so it opened last Autumn.  Once again, there used to be a station here before, in a slightly different location, but Beeching put paid to that.  Looking around at the busy community that accompanied the line - a line that connected Bradford and Leeds, so not exactly a backwater branch - I was surprised it was closed at all.  Such was the malevolence of the Doctor.

It feels as though they finished it only yesterday, with sparse wildflowers and clean tarmac.  I walked up Station Approach - a great choice of name for the new road - and found a bus turning circle and a busy car park.  Clearly Kirkstall Forge was a prestige station, so it got a lift and a fancy overbridge and landscaping.  Apperley Bridge was rather more modest.

No ticket office of course, just a machine, and the platforms were either side of an existing bridge that had been co-opted into the station complex.  There were two more stations in West Yorkshire I still hadn't collected, and I thought about skipping them altogether.  I left it in the hands of the schedulers.  If there was a Bradford train due, I'd collect the other two stations; if there was a Leeds train due, I'd head back into the city and find a pub until my train back to Lime Street.

There was a Bradford train next.  I headed down the maze of ramps to the westbound platform and settled onto the metal bench, warm from the day's sun.

Back when I started the Northern Rail phase of the blog, these two stations didn't even exist.  It was just a stretch of railway line with no reason for me to visit.  I'm glad they exist now.  New stations are always a good thing.  New stations that get me to places I'd never otherwise go to are even better.

Rhubarb, Rhubarb

Outwood.  It sounds like a kind of gay outward bound course, or perhaps a festival.  A Burning Man for homosexuals, all tepees and henna tattoos and rebirthing to discover your chi.

Or maybe I'm just reaching, trying to find an interesting angle on a very ordinary suburban station in West Yorkshire.  Two platforms, two shelters, a couple of chirpy ticket inspectors stationed on the Leeds-bound side to scare the heck out of fare dodgers.  I picked my way through the parked cars in a side access road, the tarmac going bald to reveal wet cobbles beneath, and found a sign for my selfie.

It was a dreary, depressing day, the first trip in 2016, and more or less my first time out of the house since New Year's.  Wet mist clung to the rooftops; my breath appeared then vanished into it.  I turned onto the charmingly-named Potovens Lane by a row of suburban shops; a mini-market at one end, then a succession of places to grab a quick bite - sandwiches, Cantonese, fish and chips, the "Curry Pot".

Beyond it, semis stretched into the mist, bare trees poking out of front gardens.  As I passed, some of them still had tinsel in their windows, Santas and fairies, each one looking sad and unloved now.  It's like January 1st brings with it an inch of dust and a scowl; all those harbingers of joy to all men suddenly look miserable.

It's January's fault, of course.  January's awful.  The only time people enjoy January is when there's a good snowstorm, a big swathe of white to make the country sparkle.  Otherwise it's grey and wet, a parade of low moments until we get to February and can say "oh well, at least it's a short month."  My birthday is in January, and any kind of gathering to celebrate it is inevitably filled with people forcing themselves to be amused and jolly.  They've had enough of being happy, they've got no money, and then this idiot turns up and asks them to help him glorify another year of his pathetic existence?  I've given up on parties.

I'd got to Outwood from Leeds, and though it was the next station on the line, it was actually over the border in Wakefield.  I seem to have spent an inordinate amount of time in Wakefield's suburbs over the course of this blog.  More than I've spent in places I'd actually want to visit.

The Going Loco train shop made me smile, and I once again wondered whether I should knuckle down and build a model railway in my cellar.  As usual, I realised that I don't actually have the patience or the dedication to build my own model railway, and what I really want is for someone to build me a huge extensive layout and then let me play with it.  I dodged a van delivering cat litter to the pet food on the corner, the driver hauling huge bags of it over the pavement and looking annoyed at people using the path to, you know, walk on, then took a left onto the Leeds Road.

I soon realised that I'd entered a no-man's land between Leeds and Wakefield, a kind of Neutral Zone between the two councils.  The semis had dropped away.  Instead there were sheds and trailers, garages.  Compounds with metal fences.  Banners draped over the spikes advertising cafes with full English breakfast and part-worn tyres.  The buildings were ramshackle, split into a mish-mash of uses - the engineering firm downstairs, the dog grooming parlour up.

A golf course on one side of the road and horse paddocks on the other should have provided a moment of greenery, but again, it was scraggy January, and the recent heavy rains had turned the grass to mud.

Lofthouse crept in then.  A pub with a skip outside, its hanging signs empty; the Royale Chinese restaurant, because what better says fine Oriental dining than a French word?  Another pub, with its bay window full of sports trophies, and then the "Lofthouse Millennium Green".  I passed through the gate and had a look at the patch of green, a pleasing bit of open public space.

It was hard to enjoy the quiet beauty when you had the M62 literally running alongside; the Millennium Green occupied the spot where Lofthouse's cricket pitch used to be until the motorway sliced through.  There was the usual "welcome to the green, now here are all the things you can't do" sign, but under No Ball Games they had added the M62 motorway runs alongside the green.  I suddenly had images of a terrible pile up caused by a cheap plastic Star Wars football being accidentally kicked into the windscreen of a petrol tanker.

I crossed the motorway myself, experiencing that familiar tug of vertigo that turns my stomach inside out, and reached Lofthouse proper.  There were cottages and a stone church, and I felt a moment of sadness for how the village must have been before progress smashed a constantly humming highway right through their yards.

It wasn't much past ten, the dog walking hour.  Owners marched firmly down the pavement with excitable pups at their side.  I turned a corner and found three people trapped in a sort of triangle of dogs; their pets sniffed excitedly at one another while the owners stood by, a little embarrassed, not really knowing where to look and when to drag their spaniel away.  I crossed into Cemetary Lane and found Council workers trying to back a flatbed truck into the graveyard.  I became momentarily terrified that they'd knock one of the headstones down, but with a decisive wrench of the wheel the driver managed to swing the truck into a narrow space and stopped.

A plastic sign attached to a lamppost with cable ties advertising a farm shop let me know that I'd reached an area of note; yes, I was in the Rhubarb Triangle.  The heavy wet soil of this stretch of West Yorkshire is perfect for rhubarb, and over the centuries its cultivation has become an art in this part of the world.  It's first grown in the fields, then taken into giant sheds to be "forced" - deprived of light, they use the carbohydrates inside to continue growing, making the rhubarb far sweeter.  I remember reading somewhere that their growth in the sheds is so rapid, you can actually hear the stems expanding - a thrillingly ghoulish idea.

There were leafy plants in the muddy fields across the road, but I couldn't really tell if they were rhubarb or not; again, my lack of country skills let me down.  I'm not really a rhubarb fan.  It's too sharp for my taste.  Now and then I'll have a crumble, but let's be honest, anything is palatable once you've slathered it in Taste the Difference custard.  It's not a glamorous - wait, is rhubarb a fruit or a vegetable?  It's sweet, and it's in desserts, so it seems fruity, but it's basically red celery.  Excuse me while I Google.

...ah...

It's a vegetable.

Anyway, to return to my original point, rhubarb isn't a glamorous vegetable is it?  There's Protected Designation of Origin status for Rhubarb Triangle rhubarb, giving it the same caché as Camembert and Champagne and Melton Mowbray pork pies, but I can't imagine the farmers getting invited to the same parties as Gorgonzola cheese and Arbroath Smokies.  Rhubarb has a slight air of wartime need to it; it carries with it the greyness of rationing and make do and mend, the kind of food that the British ate under suffrance because we couldn't get bananas any more.  It's semolina instead of Eton Mess.

 
Carlton's unabashedly devoted to rhubarb, though, sticking it right on the entrance to the village; either that or they've got a really good darts team.  I walked into the centre past the football and rugby clubs, finding a village that had clearly been thrown up randomly over the centuries.  It had evolved haphazardly, with houses at strange angles to the streets, and terraces going away from the road.

I passed the social club, advertising its 130 seat function room that was available free of charge unless you were holding a children's party, in which case it was twenty quid.  I imagine that's for the decontamination crew who have to be brought in afterwards to hose the jelly off the ceiling.  A skip across a couple of junctions, and then I was climbing the hill into Rothwell.

I took a small diversion into the centre of the town, because I was dying for a wee and there was a Morrison's.  When I came back out, I found a busy little high street, lined with local butchers and bakers and not overwhelmed by chain stores and charity shops.

I bought a pasty from a bakery, mainly to warm my cold fingertips, and ate it as I walked.

Rothwell town centre butts up against Springfield Park, and I followed its outskirts.  I could see tennis courts and playgrounds, and a cafe.  Further along there were wide stretches of green lawn given over to rugby and football pitches.

These weren't just sports facilities - they were flood plains.  I'd not seen much evidence of the flooding that had struck Yorkshire over Christmas - this area wasn't hit as badly as others - but the churned up mud and sodden roads still carried the scars of the downpours.  Now and then I'd cross a culverted river and it crashed under the road, still angry, while downstream I could see wrecked trees and islands of rubbish left there by the receding waters.

Crossing a roundabout - one of its exits marked with (M1): The NORTH, because apparently Leeds isn't the proper north - I was surprised to find a Tudor house, sitting right next to a dual carriageway.

The beam over the top lists the owner - Edrus Tailor - and the date - Apr 10 1611.  A four hundred year old building, just sitting by a roundabout, untouched.  I love this country.

I entered Oulton by a bunch of flowerbeds with sponsored signs explaining they were part of Oulton in Bloom - given the dead stalks beneath them, the signs looked sarcastic - and carried on up the hill.  Oulton was modern and undressy; there was a Domino's Pizza and a Lidl.  I passed what must have been my third or fourth deconsecrated church of the day, converted into flats, though the Methodist Church was still hanging in there with a coffee morning sign outside.

Oulton merged into Woodlesford with a corporate coloured Co-op overshadowing its historic building.  The stonework above the main entrance listed the date of opening; I wish the Co-op would be more sensitive to these historic, pioneering stores.  Over the road, the Clown House was a grim cinema conversion.  The font tried to be jolly, but the grey pebbledash fought against it.

The road sloped down the hill, and soon I saw two words guaranteed to make me smile:

For years, the only way to cross between platforms at Woodlesford station was via a barrow crossing right over the tracks.  A barrow crossing is theoretically perfectly safe, but unfortunately, people are idiots, and often don't notice several tons of locomotive bearing down on them at fifty miles an hour, so in 2010 the council put up a footbridge.

I say that the council put up a footbridge; given the many ramps, steps and arches, it might actually have been thrown together by a four year old playing Mousetrap.

I crossed over to the Wakefield platform and sat on a damp bench to eat my cheese rolls.  January is a filthy, miserable month.  Sometimes you need to get out and about to cheer yourself up.