December 1992. A week or so before Christmas. Our second holiday together, in a rented holiday cottage on a farm above Hebden Bridge.
Dismal drizzle along the M62, under a sky the colour of old corporation dustbins. The rain stops near Milnrow, where we take to the “A” roads. Towns and villages slip by - Littleborough, Smithy Bridge, Walsden, Todmorden - as the railway, the Rochdale Canal and River Calder run alongside us. We make progress as swiftly as a fully-loaded, two-up. 13-year-old Superdream 250N will permit. Then, almost unexpectedly, the sign confronts us. “Welcome to Hebden Bridge. The Pennine Centre.”
We’ve been here before, earlier in the year, for a week in September on the same bike, so we know the drill. First gear up Birchcliffe Road, a steep hill that runs past a postage-stamp size housing estate named Dodd Naze. Sharp right down a farm track while the narrowing road continues even more sharply to the left, the Honda gasping for breath. We obtain the key from the main building. She opens the door to the smallest of the four cottages. The heating’s full on in preparation for us, and for no extra charge.
She puts the kettle on for a brew (the first thing she always does) after I open up the panniers to access the teabags, powdered milk and sugar. We change out of our ramshackle outer biking gear. The leathers and jeans remain on, though. We want to get to the village as quickly as possible.
Walking back along the farm track in the twilight, we notice that there’s still a llama amongst the field of sheep to our right, just as there was in September. We take childish delight in using a labyrinthine route down stone steps into Hebden Bridge. (There are 202 of them - we counted them one evening.) A black cat drops from a dry stone wall like a drip of melted treacle in its efforts to avoid us. It’s very dark as we approach the village outskirts, but we can still just about make out the drying washing draped over lines from house to house, right across the side streets. The smell of the chip shop can be detected 50 yards away. They still use real dripping there. We enter the chippie: she’s been waiting three months for this moment.
Fish and chips devoured, we stock up on groceries at the local Spar before repairing to the bohemian “Shoulder of Mutton” pub across the road. It‘s “Under New Management”, and, as it turns out, better run than it was by than the previous licensees, a husband-and-wife team who were friendly enough but rather erratic as regards maintenance of the building. We’re welcomed very warmly by the friends we made on our previous visit. The beer’s on top form. It always is in Hebden Bridge and Heptonstall.
The following days are predictably enjoyable. Strolls along the frosty canal bank. A visit to the Peace Hall in Halifax, where we subsequently consume a few welcome pints while watching televised Rugby League in “The Sportsman’s”. Walks around the countryside, including the ruggedly beautiful Hardcastle Crags and parts of the Calderdale Way. We witness the delighted faces of the local kids as they gather around Rosie the Talking Reindeer at the Walkley Clog factory’s Enchanted Forest grotto near Mytholmroyd. Our attempt to conquer the hair-raising footpath down from Heptonstall in the dark is vaguely successful. We have a go on all the playground equipment in Calder Holmes Park, despite having a combined age of 63. And, of course, we ensure that we remain well fed and watered. (I had six Christmas dinners in 1992, owing to our resourcefulness in finding pubs and caffs with cut-price meals in the Calder Valley.) Not much to excite the cosmopolitans, but we’re extremely happy with our lot, which is punctuated by moments of sheer farce. The pink woolly hat of a tiny baby in a backward-facing pram being pulled by its parents in front of us slips over her eyes, plunging her into sudden, puzzling darkness until my giggling wife-to-be lifts the offending item back into position. A Christmas shopper drops a large tin of biscuits in Leeds, allowing me to shout “Crumbs!”, exactly as I’ve wanted to do since I saw the joke in “The Beano” back in 1964.
On the night before our return to Wirral, a group of organised carol singers is circulating around the village. Harmonious, and complete with traditional lanterns and Victorian dress, they move my normally unsentimental wife-to-be to tears. The ride home next day should be cold, but isn‘t; we are consumed by a warm glow that lasts well into the New Year.
December 1992, seasoned as it was by the optimism sometimes engendered by a forthcoming Christmas, was one of the most magical and happiest times of my life. It was an accumulation of eclectic, shared pleasures which I became convinced would cement a relationship that would last for the rest of my days. It was not to be; our time in Hebden Bridge will never happen again. Nor can it ever be recreated. My wife took the fifty-first way to leave her lover - the one Paul Simon didn’t dare mention - and the cottages are no longer available to rent. I sometimes think about that baby in the pram, who will be in her twenties by now. She probably won’t remember the day my late wife restored her sight.
@valencia, that truly moved me to tears. You weave a lovely poetic n descriptive tale. It must be a great comfort to you that you have such wonderful, bittersweet memories of your time together.
Your daughter may not remember those small moments but you must ensure they are related to her over the coming years so that the memories will stay alive.
Btw, my mates b/f worked as the resident DJ in The Sportsman for many years, I spent many happy times in there as well as The Upper George. Great pubs in their time, havent been for years. I suppose i ought to make the effort to go over to Halifax.
Thank you, GBNP. It was difficult to write that account, and I had to break off at times; I'm pleased it wasn't too bad to read. My 11-year-old daughter likes to hear stories about her mum as we walk the local rural footpaths together.
Last time I looked, Halifax was a wonderful place for pubs. I hope the better ones are still open...
GBNP, his poetry is .....I couldn't find the right words, so went looking: Poetry is an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional response. And I've read some of his 'off the cuff' poetry and I always had an 'emotional response'. It's just fantastic.....now no blushing PP! Lol
Okay back to the title.....well I wasn't going to say...as I don't really give too much away, but I lost mum at 21 two days after Xmas day and then exactly 21 years later lost dad, on mums funeral date 4th Jan. I lost the Christmas spirit for a while, but never told anyone, I just got on with it. Then a few years back I thought I needed to do something about this humbug feeling I was carrying around inside me. I went and worked for Argos at the weekends on the run up to Xmas. It was great seeing the small children come in all excited buying their mums and dads a present, they were so cute. But the one that gave me my Christmas spirit back was an old boy who came to my till, white hair and a big white beard.......he was the most politest gentleman I have ever met.....he looked at me, told me that I was going to have a great Xmas and gave me a wink and a sweet from his pocket......and out he walked....still smiling.......and I suddenly realised........I have just served and spoken to Santa himself!!!!!! And that was it, I enjoyed that Christmas and all the other ones since :D xxxx as for how I feel about losing both parents, I am comforted by the fact they are reunited, they absolutely adored each other in a way very few of us will ever blessed with x
Following on from the above, here’s another motorcycling-specific story featuring Santa Claus/Father Christmas. It’s nowhere near as emotive, though it has a sting in the tail.
It would’ve been December 1983. A local all-female motorcycle club had organised a toy run for underprivileged children, which was to start at a local pub. When I turned up on the Sunday morning, the car park was naturally full of bikes so I left mine in a side street.
Just as I was about to enter the pub I was accosted by two girls who I recognised as members of the club. “This one’ll do,” said Carole, and within seconds I was being virtually dragged through a side entrance before being bundled down a corridor, into a room and on to a rickety chair.
The room was full of club members. “We’ve found one,” announced Carole, triumphantly.
“One what?” I was perplexed.
“The Santa we hired is still drunk in New Ferry. You’re his replacement.”
I was a trifle offended. “Do I look stout?”
“Hmmm… no…” Carole mused. “Sue - bungee a cushion around his stomach.”
This was getting bizarre, but there was no arguing with these girls. The cushion was duly double-bungeed as someone produced a moth-eaten Santa costume which looked as though it had seen service in the Mau Mau uprising, complete with bullet holes. It later emerged that it had been found lying in the pub’s attic covering a dead crate of light ale.
“We’ll have to tie his hair back… he’ll have to keep his hood up… Santa doesn’t have black curly hair… Steph, try to find some cotton wool to tape over his eyebrows…” The instructions came thick and fast, and I’ve never been attended to be so many females. Nor so roughly. The cotton wool came from a disposable nappy. I was praying it hadn’t been used beforehand.
Thankfully, the Father Christmas suit was of the old-fashioned, long-coat style with a hood. Had it been the contemporary look with red trousers, these ladies would’ve had my keks off to accommodate them. Seriously.
I finally donned the shabby scarlet coat. It was a good four inches too long. “Never mind,” said Carole, firmly. Yes, never mind if I broke my neck tripping over it…
“So what do I do when we get there?” I asked, bewildered.
“Walk in with a sack over your shoulder, sit down and keep quiet,” replied Sue, handing me a white beard on a piece of elastic which looked as though it had come from a 1960s Lucky Bag. “We’ll distribute the toys an’ all that.”
I was shoved through a door into the bar to huge cheers from the assembled bikers. Upon making my way outside, I discovered that my transport was not to be a one-horse open sleigh but the sidecar on a cherry-red Jawa 350 combo. My chauffeuse was determined to lead the run in speedy style, ignoring my shouts of “Whoa, Rudolph!” every time we hit one of the many bumps which were a feature of the area’s notoriously ill-maintained roads.
Anyway, we got away with it and I must have got something right, as I was specifically press-ganged into portraying Santa on the Christmas toy run for the next two years, though on these latter occasions I was mercifully supplied with a costume which more-or-less fitted. On the last occasion, I enlisted two wheelchair-bound girls from the PHAB club where I worked voluntarily to act as “four-wheeled fairies”, in order to publicly demonstrate that disabled people could contribute to charity as well as benefit from it. To their bitter disappointment - and to the anger of the rest of us - they were cropped from a photo they’d had taken with me (in Santa gear) which appeared in a local newspaper. Upon enquiring as to why this had happened, we were told by the editor that the idea of handicapped people actually making an effort to support a charitable effort which was otherwise unconnected with them would “confuse the readers”.
Sadly, we never had the opportunity to rectify the omission the next year. A member of the organising club was very seriously injured in a motorcycle accident on the A41 a few months later - she still walks with a stick to this day - and it broke up as a result.
XKLYBR - Er... no. I was at a rally in Wigan on that weekend. I have never claimed in any way, shape or form to have attended the Hallowistmas Sequel 2014, although I did send a gift there by snail mail to a friend. I cancelled my invite to the Hallowistmas and removed my photograph on the afternoon of 27th November. All this should be easy to check out.
Thank you for asking, though. I appreciate your concern.
Ah yes the infamous parcel that the landlord was not happy about. Snail mail takes more than 1 day to get there, so you must have known before the afternoon of the 27th you were not attending, so why wait so late to remove yourself and potentially stop somebody else going to a number limited event? Just curious
Valencia you were still down for the event on the Friday morning. I know this as I was checking the numbers every day. You in fact were taking yourself off and then putting yourself back on for a number of weeks so try to remember last week as well as you do events from 20+ years ago
Well, John, I unreservedly apologise. I thought I'd moved myself from the list on Thursday afternoon. Obviously not; it must have been on the Friday. I am also sorry, Jackie, that the landlord wasn't happy about the parcel. I sent it on ahead in case I couldn't make the event, which is of course what happened.
The domestic situation was varying almost from day to day - one of the perils of being a member of the "sandwich generation", I'm afraid - and as it changed from "possible" to "hopeless" and back again, I removed and replaced myself on the list accordingly. I did notice that, although the number of potential attenders was exceedingly healthy, it wasn't going exceed the limit; had it looked like doing so, I would have removed myself permanently.
Up to the very last minute I hoped I could have attended, and I’ve read that it turned out to be a splendid party. In the end, circumstances dictated that if I was going to attend an event at all on the weekend in question, it would be better if it was comparatively local to me.
Regards,
Valencia.
I lost my beloved grandad (more dad tbh) on 19 Dec, several years back. He was a total kid when it came to Christmas, decs up, lights, tinsel, action so to speak. He so wanted to see another Christmas, he tried so hard, but the cancer, after a 5 year battle, was too strong. Even now, I can't bear decorations up, but seeing other peoples decorations twinkling away makes me smile because I know the joy it would have brought him but always tinged with sadness as I miss him.
My little tale was to highlight the fact I believe in Santa, and my children, 18 and 24 know that if they dare not believe then they end up one present short under the tree with old mans handwriting on. This year I will still have my two grandsons living here....3 and 4....and they will quickly learn to believe in Santa too! Lol
Some really touching memories here, I won't write mine down as they are too painful and too private, but thankyou to others for sharing theirs... its a comfort
I too have suffered several loss at this time of year, my 'doldrums time' starts at the beginning of November and builds until about a week before Christmas. I love Christmas but the build up to it does cause me emotional turmoil.
tbh... bittersweet memories are ones that I keep to myself and those who are very close to me. So I do not wish to share them.
However I do realise that, for some people, sharing can be cathartic and therefore this thread should be for those wishing to share memories of moments in their lives that are indeed bittersweet NOT the existence of Santa!
Trouble with things like this, which is like text messages etc things can get taken out of context.....I just added more as I thought my little bit about Santa was over looked. Trust me I wouldn't mock anyone about lose, or their feelings....I have had my share. one thing I hope is this site doesn't become like Facebook over the Christmas period and end up with a great deal of sadness, at moments like this we should all come together and enjoy the season.
As I don't do facebook, I haven't a clue how it is at any time of the year.
I think the issue was how your post was worded as I did feel you were trivilising my post which was a tad upsetting at the time, as I don't share things like that easily with anyone.
As you say messages can be read out of context. so with that said, lets move on, as you say its Christmas and joy should be at the forefront.
I'm sorry if you thought I was having a dig, absolutely not x I wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings x I read your post with an understanding heart xx
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