Lady Amanda French resides in Millthwaite with her gilet collection and Rupert the miniature Schnauzer; she designs gardening gloves and enjoys the occasional bruschetta with friends …
I live in a delightful village; you really must visit some time darlings. We could take tea in one of the lovely cafés and then stroll along the side of the canal. There are a surprising number of retail outlets for a place with a population of 6,000 people* (* an assumption on my part) and we can cater for all your needs, whether you are after a loaf of bread, a wedding dress or a tattoo. Why go anywhere else?
There is perhaps one drawback to my quaint village I should mention: the public transport. Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Silly Lady French, you can’t expect a regular public transport life line to deliver you to your nearest city. You live out in the sticks; there are only approximately 6,000 of you, which is not enough to warrant a good bus service.’ But that’s not what I was going to say, so stop second guessing me: it makes one VERY CROSS.
No, darlings, I was thinking more of the people on the public transport: I’ll be more specific, the Real Ale Trailers.
The Real Ale Trail was once a lovely afternoon’s activity designed by the Victorians* (*potentially not true) for those with a penchant for cask conditioned ale, trains and exploring small rural communities set in beautiful countryside. Those taking part would hop on a train at Manchester Victoria and pick their way across the border into wonderful Yorkshire indulging in the odd tipple as they go. So far, so marvellous.
However, in modern times, the Real Ale Trail has become something of a test of stamina for those young* (*and quite often those not so young, meaning youthful exuberance is not always a satisfactory excuse, though in my dotage I do try to make an exception for it) ladies and gentleman celebrating a friend’s impending nuptials. If you were to get on, what I whimsically like to call, the chuggy train from Manchester Victoria you would quickly be surrounded by a crowd of these happy individuals. At each stop, your crowd would hop off and wander towards the nearest pub with increasingly stumbling footsteps and, on each occasion, they would be replaced by a new, slightly more inebriated crowd.
They might amuse themselves in some small, humorous way on the journey. Some like to sing. Some like to shout to their cohort further down the carriage about which of their peers has caused the foul smell now emanating from the toilets. Some like to befriend the locals and find out what book they’re reading. The men folk often dress up as pirates, sailors or cavemen and their women folk often dress up as … well usually something a bit brazen darlings.
If you were to journey all the way to Huddersfield, you would witness an interesting change manifest itself as relatively calm persons departing Manchester Victoria are transformed into increasingly boisterous types before cresting the curve and reaching a zombie like status on attaining Huddersfield station. Why, just the other day* (*according to rumour), one such gentleman meandered off the edge of the platform of Huddersfield station in front of an oncoming train. The driver had the presence of mind to bring his engine to a sudden stop thus avoiding any unpleasantness and the gentleman in question simply picked himself up and wandered off, seemingly oblivious to the steaming large train next to him.
And so, if you came to my village on a pleasant sunny Saturday afternoon, you might bear witness to some odd behaviour. You might find a train platform or pavement decorated with sick or see drunken want-to-be Olympians attempt to leap the canal: it’s a difficult and death defying task, which I as a local heartily approve of. Our taking of tea may be interrupted by the sound of smashing glass and our stroll along the canal may be sadly spoilt by someone seeking rescue from the muddy waters.
But don’t worry, the police are here now. Who needs public transport to get to the city? The trains have brought the city to us.