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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Summit..climb every mountain or not ?

I've been hillwalking since aged 8. My parents took it up at the same time, so it was a family pastime. With a hiking club, we did indeed attain some summits, but basically it was a walking group and did not just focus on mountains.

That's always been my mantra since then. If I happen to ascend a peak whilst on a walk, then that's just fine, but I don't set off to 'climb' and then descend...because it's the walk I enjoy. Many enthusiasts don't get it and on one particular fb page I was rather nastily treated. I don't care, I know what I enjoy.

As I've got older, of course, it is more difficult for me to gain height at a goodly pace and I need a walk first to warm the old muscles up. Last year I set off up Parlick from the car park at the base. To say I was slow is putting it mildly ! I huffed and puffed, with many stops to admire the view. Once up there I then enjoyed the Ridge walk and spent a happy day pootling along the footpaths - but the sudden ascent was hard on my poor legs !

I have successfully walked out the distance of the Jungfrau glacier at 12k feet, and I didn't feel the affects of the altitude. For , you see, I'd gone up to the "Top of Europe" on the train so the walk then was great. In the Rockies I attained over 12.5k as the walk up was very slow and very long, so I'd got warmed up and into my stride.

Nearer to home I did, however, want to go up Pendle Hill. The route I like is slow and gentle to begin with, then meanders slowly upwards to the summit. I've been up twice...never seen the view ( due to mist) and I've continued round and descended by a different path. It's a nice circular walk. I must , though, really do it again to see the view !

Views make reaching the summit worthwhile. It's wonderful to look upon the countryside from a height. Just to sit and dwell upon the vista. Absorb it. Take it all in. Relax. Ponder. Admire. Just sometimes I'm reluctant to leave a place because I'm overcome by the beauty, and overwhelmed to think that I will , probably, never return to that place again, and I keep glancing back, not wishing to forget.

I wrote two poems about making for Pendle Hill, so I'll choose one to share with you today.

Remember, though, not all summits are on a mountain top......

  Pendle Hill (1)

   My eyes were drawn towards the towering slope.
   Oh! Pendle Hill I've oft looked at you.
   The vista might give rise to joy and hope,
   So sure, indeed, there'd be a wondrous view.

   First time I went it started poor, you see.
   With rucksack packed I set off full of verve,
   But sky was grey, no sun shone down on me.
   Still hopeful, I set off with steely nerve.

   Oh! Pendle Hill, you fickle mountain top-
   The moorland soon by fog was duly kissed,
   The mist came down - I did not want to stop.
   So thick, so chill, so fearsome drifting mist.

   The summit reached.The mist descended cold.
   The view obscured, my hopes no longer bold.


  Thanks for reading, Kath.

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