Trams - Illuminated Train Tram

 

I’m currently enjoying a birthday break in Dumfries & Galloway, where so far, the snow has missed us out. The temperature is below freezing.  Blue skies, sunshine and hardly a breeze, but that may change in a day or two, according to the weather forecast, even in this micro climate pocket. It’s cosy in our favourite lodge. This is my happy place. While I’m relaxing I’m reminiscing about my childhood and my first encounter with trams.

That second relocation to Blackpool would have taken place in April, 1965. I was nine and a half.  My father got his wish, a pub on Blackpool promenade. Uprooted again, but I soon settled in to our home and my new school. All my pub homes were interesting, even quirky, looking back, but this one was the best. It might be to do with my father’s fulfilled ambition, but there was a calmness and happiness through the family that I was aware of. I hadn’t lived anywhere that offered such fascination through the front windows of our accommodation. South Pier, the beach, the sea in all its moody glory, the promenade that filled with people as spring turned to summer and summer ended with the Illuminations. Bay windows meant our view had a long stretch in both directions. Donkeys on the beach – I would hear their bells as they arrived and departed. Of course, those thundering trams trundling the length of the prom from Starr Gate to Fleetwood and they were loud. At least, loud is how I remember them and they seemed to be more noisy in the winter months when they had the promenade to themselves. During the Illuminations, there was, for me, the added joy of watching the illuminated trams go by, The Rocket, The Ship, The Boat and The Western Train which we always called the Puffer Train Tram, the one my sister looked out for.

Eventually I got to have a ride on one of the clanging monstrosities.  I think our housekeeper, Auntie Kathy, took us – that’s my sister and me – the first time. Other times we went with our mum and even Nanna was persuaded to come along on one of her visits.

As an adult, I have appreciated our Blackpool and Fylde coast line more than I ever did in childhood. When the new, smooth and quieter trams came on track I enjoyed taking the trip from Starr Gate to Fleetwood and back, just to look at the sea. The trams have been part of Blackpool since 1885, which makes them older than the Tower. They are an essential part of public transport for Blackpool and Fleetwood as well as a popular tourist attraction.

Moving pubs meant moving town, leaving behind the familiar comforts and friends to start again somewhere. It wasn’t always welcome but, looking back, I think I coped with the disruption. I have fond memories of people and places that were part of my childhood.

Back to the here and now, weather permitting, we’ll go out for lunch tomorrow to one of our favourite venues. If the weather is against us, we’ll stay cosy and make use of our food supply.

My Haiku poem,

Ride along the front
A new, smooth electric tram,
Starr Gate to Fleetwood.

How quiet they are!
Almost silent on the tracks
Where others thunder’d,

Rattled and trundled,
Those balloons of cream and green
Belonged to Blackpool.

Me, a nine year old,
Found so much fascination
Through our front windows.

And it got better,
Much to my delight, some trams,
Illuminated!

The ship, the rocket,
And the very best of all –
The Western train tram.

The new trams are good,
Accessible and comfy,
Have a seaside treat.

Choose a sunny day.
It’s an amazing journey
The best North West coast.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Melancholy

He said I was ‘snippy’. I was taken aback, but he was right, of course. He knows me better than I know myself. I thought about it. I was feeling down in the dumps and I knew I was being moody, irritable and impatient. Things were getting me down. I was easily upset and filled with a sadness that I couldn’t shake off. I wanted things that I couldn’t have; my nanna, my mum, my sense of smell so I could remind myself of her Estee Lauder fragrance; and normal eyesight. My vision is very frustrating sometimes – most of the time. The melancholy has eased off for now, but it will be back. I can rely on my husband to tell me I’m ‘snippy’ if I’m not aware.

It is the statins. I blame everything on the statins from my mood to my physical aches and pains and fatigue. Before I was prescribed, I blamed everything on the menopause. I’m a bit senior to carry that off convincingly, so the statins are the culprit.

Recently, when window-shopping round various jewellers in town looking for something special for my sister, I saw a pre-loved ring exactly like the one I was stupid enough to lose in 1971, an inexpensive dress ring of sentimental value, given to me by an aunt. I’d forgotten all about it for most of the last fifty-odd years, but seeing it brought back memories and made me feel sad to have been so careless in my teens. I know exactly where I lost it and at the time I’d retraced my steps over and over again and searched as thoroughly as I could. I concluded that someone must have found it. This can’t possibly be the same ring, but it filled me with nostalgia, so much that I might buy it as a replacement.

I was listening to ‘A Question of Balance’ – The Moody Blues, this morning, and in particular Mike Pinder’s ‘Melancholy Man’. It’s a great song. Help yourself on YouTube.

I looked to my beloved Brontes for a ‘melancholy’ poem and decided that any poem by any one of them would be suitable and I found that quite sad. The lives they had in the parsonage overlooking the church and the graveyard, the loss of their mother and older siblings, then the loss of each other is reflected in their poems. The troubled Branwell the most melancholy, fighting his demons.

I chose a poem I wrote in memory of our nephew, David. Today marks fourteen years since he was murdered.

Rondeau In memory of David

Think happy thoughts and always smile.
This might not be the hardest mile
To walk on our journey of life,
But just another time of strife;
So stop and rest here for a while.

Remember days of carefree style
Before the death, before the trial;
Before the bastard with the knife…
Think happy thoughts,

And not of the murder so vile
And let nothing spoil or defile
The joyful mem’ries of his life,
His little girl, bewildered wife.
Hold still and wait here for a while,
Think happy thoughts.

PMW 2009

Robert Peston will lift my spirits. I'm reading one of his books, 'Whistleblower'.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Simple Pleasures

How nice it is to please myself what I do and when I do it. Retirement is wonderful, apart from the lack of freedom we’ve had due to Covid restrictions. To be fair, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on much. I’m not one for much socialising, but when someone says I can’t, suddenly it’s the very thing I want to do. Revelations about social occasions the government got up to against their own rules make my blood boil. There’s enough being documented without me moaning. Give enough rope, etc. I’ll wait.

My family has been my ‘bubble’ since the end of the first lockdown relaxed movement enough for us to be together.  Sundays used to be family day. We would have all four grandchildren for lunch and tea, fun and games, cousins together, usually with one or more of their parents. Sometimes we need the help and we’d always end up shattered, even if we’d been doing quiet stuff like colouring or Play-Doh. Nowadays, with two of them being at school and two at nursery, we’ve changed to Mondays to make it a bit easier on ourselves – us getting older. We have two after school and enjoy their company for a while before the younger ones arrive a little later after nursery. It’s the lovely, simple pleasures that family time brings that gives me so much joy, even when there are tantrums and moody moments. My treasures, each one.

 When we were allowed, my husband and I travelled to Scotland on a couple of socially distanced breaks. We stay in a self-catering lodge and observe whatever restrictions are in place when we are out and about. Things are constantly changing but what we noticed each visit was that rules were strictly adhered to. We felt safe and looked after. Again, it’s the simple pleasures that matter for us; watching red kites, or the birds outside the lodge that I fill the feeders for twice a day, relaxing with a book, doing a bit of knitting or pottering about outside. It was great to be back after so long.

At home I like to keep in contact with my friends. One, like me, has kept very much to her immediate family throughout Covid, but we chat regularly on the phone or text each other, often after a Blackpool F.C. match. I’ve probably been at the ground, she’s been watching or listening at home. That’s another of my simple pleasures, going to the match, face mask on, being part of it regardless of the outcome and hopefully, walking home singing.

Music, as mentioned in my last blog is a necessary part of my day, lots of radio, but I’ve just taken delivery of John Lodge’s new album on CD and I’m happily giving it a hammering. I sometimes do the Sudoku in the paper, alternating between that and the word-wheel that drives me crazy. I’m mad, sad, simple or crazy, and I don’t care. I’m glad to be retired and pleasing myself.

My poem,

A welcome mug of Nescafe Gold Blend,

Enjoying a phone chat with a close friend.

“How’s it going? Are you coping okay?

I managed to get out for lunch today.

Doing the driving to help the guys plans,

A treat of salad and steak in St Anne’s.

Face mask and hand gel, all safety measures

Necessary for such simple pleasures.

Sunday was quiet, we just played Scrabble.

Monday was hectic with all our rabble.

At last, M’s wobbly tooth has come out,

The litt’luns were squabbling and falling out,

Just usual stuff, you know what they’re like,

They both want the pedal car, not the bike.

L loves to read, my darling treasure."

Fam’ly Mondays make a simple pleasure.

 

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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