There was a strangely menacing quality to Manchester this morning. Set out early to cross the city, having booked near Victoria in anticipation of the tour which didn't run. The walk to Piccadilly was cold, dark and surprisingly busy given the early hour. Noted a few rough sleepers - a sight which has been absent from city centre streets in recent times, but possibly due to the privatisation of these spaces rather than any great shift in housing policy I suspect. These denizens of the doorways were joined in their slumbers by a good few casualties from the previous evening, slumped where they landed after their revels. Felt old, conservative and disapproving, but then convinced myself there was probably nothing wrong with that at all. Turned the corner towards Piccadilly meeting a ferocious wind. One coffee shop open and doing a brisk trade, but I've never liked their brew so headed up to platform 14 to wait for my train. These 'lost weekend' trips are always interesting by virtue of their unexpected quality, but standing in the cold and black northern morning I was beginning to doubt my wisdom. Relieved when a brace of warm, comfortable Class 185s rounded the corner. Found my seat and settled in for a sleepy trip north, at least until the sun came up.
Daylight began to break around Preston, here a catering trolley joined the train and a pleasant attendant served us our complimentary breakfast - these seemed to consist of one of everything on the trolley, heaped onto the table efficiently and quickly. Most importantly, it contained coffee of a sort. So, refreshed and with the promise of a bright morning somewhere behind the cloudy Pennines, I settled in to enjoy one of my favourite journeys.
As we passed Carstairs and began the final leg of the journey towards Glasgow, the question of what to do with my day began to trouble me. I've passed through the city several times this year, and having only limited time have not even tried to do it justice. There is always a strange tension - to revist old haunts and reacquaint myself with the city, or to strike out in new directions. Whilst the former is easy and comfortable, it doesn't really fit the plan of understanding the place 'warts and all' so to speak. However, the latter takes planning - and I'd done nothing of the sort. The question wasn't really answered until around an hour after arrival. Having finally got a decent coffee I made a strange progress through the shopping streets, dodging into shops to avoid the rain. Whilst browsing the 'local books' section in one of these, I found a small volume about the Southern Necroplis. Over my shoulder, a local voice said "Aye, ye should have a look at that place pal". A pleasant conversation followed with the gent who'd been looking over my shoulder in which he claimed that the tourist should be encouraged to visit the southside more, and that the Southern Necroplis, though not nearly as dramatic as it's city centre cousin, was full of interest and history. He said, almost throwing down a gauntlet that he didn't think I'd go as one mention of Gorbals was enough to "send people aff screamin' in the direction of the Willow Tearooms and a nice bit of shortbread". I assured him I'd not be doing that, and headed for the bus stop. Soon heading south along Saltmarket, with a sudden splash of sunshine on the tower blocks.
Alighted on a long, deserted stretch of Caledonia Road on the no mans land between Gorbals and Hutchensontown. The gatehouse of the vast cemetary loomed above the otherwise empty southern side of the street - and ignoring the 'Danger Keep Out' signs which I assumed applied to the fairly rickety looking structure itself as opposed to the Necropolis, I strode in. The sensation of immediate silence is one I'll remember for a long while. A lone dog walker turned the corner behind a hedge ahead of me, and left me alone in the overgrown and tree-lined central section of the burial yard. Pressed on into the centre, noting the great age of even the newest graves. Many of the stones had collapsed and lay where they fell, while others had been taken down for safety's sake and stacked against the neighbouring tomb. Without the guidebook I'd not even thought to purchase, I could recall only one particular statue I wanted very much to seek out - that of the White Lady. I'm intrigued by these local oral traditions, and especially when they make it into print. In some ways this is standard fayre - the lady is said to turn her head to follow the unwary traveller. No doubt this is related to the unquiet spirit of the lady and her housekeeper killed in 1933 by a tramcar which they didn't see from behind their umbrella. I surveyed the monument for a while, weathered and overgrown - but made from a strangely luminous stone which no doubt adds to it's spooky reputation at night. As if to mock the superstitious thoughts which creep into even a rational mind at such lonely times, the weather took a sudden and vicious turn - the wind curled leaves into a tunnel around me, and sticks flicked against my face. I hurried on my way, the trees bending ominously towards me. As I reached the exit the wind died away as suddenly as it had risen up. Had the same sudden squalls not continued for much of the day, I confess I'd have been a little spooked by my odd visit to the Southern Necropolis.
Back on the bus to Saltmarket, and then a sudden thought provoked me to disembark near the 13th Note in King Street. I'd remembered at last to find the location of Monorail music - a record shop of impeccable reputation which was squirrelled away at the back of a range of shops in the arches under the City Union Line. I'd gazed out at these shops for a decade without much thought, but now I strolled into a fantastic place - the cafe, wooden floored, pleasantly dark and aromatic with lunchtime food - was in itself a surprise. The record shop, tucked away at the back of the store was though, a revelation. I was taken back to the old days in Bristol - Revolver records - a small square room, lots of vinyl, nothing which you could easily pick up at the local Our Price of HMV. Found a signed copy of the Pastels/Tenniscoats CD and left feeling like I'd invaded the lair of people much younger than I! A calm, pleasant place though.
With the rain beginning to spatter down again, I ventured north into Merchant City, making it as far as Blackfriars before giving in and settling for a pint of a good, local brew in Kelburn's 'Red Smiddy'. This place is always great - pleasant, friendly staff and good beer despite being early. Spent a while over my drink before taking advantage of another burst of sunshine to catch another bus. I wanted to travel back to Saracen Cross. This might seem like a strange, perhaps voyeuristic pilgrimage - after all I have no personal connection with this strange outpost of Glasgow. But there was something of it's frontier town feel creeping into Highbridge somehow, and I wondered if I could isolate it and understand it. As the bus crawled through the tangle of motorway slip-roads and turned north I felt strangely nervous. My last visit was on a quiet winter morning, while few folks were about - today however was turning into a bright afternoon. There were a fair few people lingering around the isolated blocks of housing as we approached the valley between the tenement blocks which symbolise this street. Looking up the hill - on Stoneyhurst or Allander Street all was empty - perfectly straight roads, slowly climbing towards Springburn and oddly devoid of any property beyond Saracen Street. Disembarked and took a short walk down the rows of shops. I'll not describe this - it's a place where people live and struggle - not a theme park. Suffice to say I felt humbled enough by the experience, and not least by the sight of the fortified Post Office, standing alone and defiant amid land earmarked for development.
Back in the city, time to reflect on my travels before preparing for the journey back to Manchester. Once again, a good run on the 185 despite a few more stops. The customer host was also, rather like the first one of the day, excessively generous with complimentary items. On arriving at Piccadilly, walked through the busy and rather congested streets to Victoria with the thought of perhaps doing one of the last trains around the Oldham Loop. A strange and heady mix at Victoria of the usual revellers, the ever-present Emo crowd and a lot of cranks who'd been on the Spitfire steam tour. Watched for a while before deciding that there was something odd and rather morbid about the event. Back to my hotel room, high above the city, watching the trains leave Victoria. At the due hour, I listened for the departure - another bit of line closed, and me feet away but not taking part this time. Once again, a short stay in Glasgow has upset all the usual priorities.
Lost::MikeGTN
I've had a home on the web for more years than I care to remember, and a few kind souls persuade me it's worth persisting with keeping it updated. This current incarnation of the site is centred around the blog posts which began back in 1999 as 'the daylog' and continued through my travels and tribulations during the following years.
I don't get out and about nearly as much these days, but I do try to record significant events and trips for posterity. You may also have arrived here by following the trail to my former music blog Songs Heard On Fast Trains. That content is preserved here too.
