Black Puddings and Brief Encounters; when Santa came to Bury

In what will be regarded by traditionalists as a controversial move, long-time Lapland resident Santa Claus has upped sticks from his traditional Nordic base and will from now on be operating from a state-of- the- art transportation hub situated just outside of Bury, Lancashire.  The location’s enviable motorway connections are said to have influenced the move, as well as the bearded benefactor’s well-documented love of the northern market town’s previous claim to fame, the black pudding.

Happily the sainted gift-bearing redcoat has not seen fit to dispense entirely with tradition,  as can be concluded by his decision to spend each weekend in the run-up to Christmas in residency on an old-fashioned steam train (not a reindeer-drawn flying carriage, but then we can’t have everything), travelling back and forth between Bury’s Bolton Street station and the nearby town of Ramsbottom.  This Saturday we packed young Frankie into the back of the motor and  went along for the ride.

The Santa Special is due out of  Bolton Street station at 12:30.  We leave the adjoining car-park at 12:25 and walk straight into what looks like the set for ‘Brief Encounter’.  The station, which has been loving renovated by an army of volunteers, features a 1950s-style ticket office, a vending machine attached to the wall offering 20 Players cigarettes for the appealing price of 1s9d, and, tucked away in the corner, a genuine, rusting,  vintage trolley, stacked with battered suitcases of the style favoured by wartime evacuees.   There are liveried attendants everywhere and not a branch of Starbucks in sight.

The period detail is quite perfectly realised, and we could stay all day taking in the atmosphere (I would have enjoyed chain-smoking cheap tabs, reassured by the contemporary medical profession’s assurances that they were good for my lungs, while reading in the papers about Newcaste United’s multiple FA Cup triumphs), but it is 12:32  (albeit 12:32 sometime in the 1950s) and we have a train to catch.  We haul a rather-sceptical looking Frankie from his pushchair  (which has been deemed too sleek and 21^st century to take aboard the Santa Special) and carry him down to the platform, where- this being the Golden Age of British Steampower- there is a smiling, liveried, patently underworked attendant on hand to guide us directly to our seat, nine carriages down from the steam-belching engine and at the end of a compartment filled to the brim with people from the daytrip that has been arranged by my works  social club.  We wave at some familiar faces, marvel at the sight of Brenda from Automotive Goods with a screaming toddler hanging from her trousers, and prepare to embark.

The train hisses into life, and rumbles out of Bury, passing the very 21^st century Pilsworth Industrial Estate on its way to some more picturesque Lancashire scenery.  There is much pre-adolescent screeching, but nine-month-old Frankie appears to be taking this short journey in his stride.   We are not surprised.  Not only is the young fellow a famously laid-back baby, but he is an intrepid veteran of train journeys from his native Manchester to both Liverpool and London.  But  then, just as we are starting to feel smug about our darling, placid railway child, the Santa Special enters a tunnel., and all hell breaks loose. 

Frankie has apparently mistaken the entry into the Rawtenstall tunnel for an unscheduled return to the womb and protests in the most strident terms his limited vocabulary will allow.  Hardened parents of nearby toddlers cover their ears, take liberal swigs from the complementary half-bottles of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, and pray for daylight.  It comes- but as we emerge from the tunnel a brass band arrives, belting out  ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ with the trombone turned up to eleven and its horn close enough for me to grab a hold of and hurl into the passing countryside.  I am sorely tempted- and not only because it is making the baby cry- but content myself with leaving a miserly tip of 6 pence in the bucket proffered by the slip of a lass bringing up the band’s rear.

It is a hectic afternoon aboard the 12:35 to 1958- but it is about to get more hectic.  Just outside of Summerseat the falsetto volume reaches earbursting pitch, as the carriage doors part to reveal a 6’2’’ elf clad in a yellow and green all-in-one, who steps to one side to introduce a smaller , fatter, white-bearded figure, resplendent in a red cloak.  ‘Ho-ho-ho-ing’ loudly for the benefit of any passengers slow on the uptake who might have mistaken him for the ticket clerk or big Reg from accounts, the figure ambles rotundly down the carriage, leaving a trail of packages at each table.  Much oohing and aahing ensues, as the paper is torn at to reveal lavish gifts.  The nine year old girl in our group  gets a luminous radio-pen and bursts into a wide, toothy grin.  A nearby 5-year-old boy marvels at a toy truck which transforms itself into a robot.  Frankie is presented with a fluffy monkey more that half his size, and bursts inconsolably into tears.   Santa Claus makes his excuses and leaves the carriage.

The main business of the day having been completed, we start to trundle back towards Bury, and everybody- including young Frank, who has started to enjoy himself now the scary man in the red costume has buggered off- starts to calm down again.  The kids play with their new toys, while the  grown-ups take deep breaths, drain off the last of the Harvey’s, and launch into grown-up conversations about parking spaces and Christmas shopping.  And then, just as we are settling into our seats, we arrive back where we started and it is time to get off. 

We step outside, say our goodbyes to our fellow travellers, and emerge blinking back into the year 2004.  A brief stop in a 1970s- style town centre café later (not another themed exprerience; they just haven’t decorated in a long time) and we are on our way out of Bury- the land of black puddings, famous markets, and Santa Claus.  We may well be back next year- it’s a lovely day out for the kids (if, as we found,  a slightly scary one in parts for the very tiniest passengers) and not a bad one for the grown-ups either.  Now, if they can arrange for the trombones to be turned down a notch, and step up the provision of sherry to a full half-bottle per paying guest, the East Lancs Railway may well have a Christmas hit on their hands.

Comments

[Abby]

I think you might have a very perceptive child on your hands there. I am sure he is aware that the real Santa Claus is in residency in Fenwick's toy department on Northumberland Street. This Rabelaisian impostor and his brassy accompaniment can serve only as a crude insult to the young man's gentle and poetic nature.

I'd also like to know where white pudding is from please, Mr Crinklybee.

[looby]

We took ours to the Keighley and Worth Valley Railway once, and we had to concentrate on looking at the 1970s DMU's after our eldest (then aged 3.5) was frightened by the steam engline playing Thomas.

I like the idea of a free booze ration though.

[Lee]

Thanks so much for that.

My parents took my niece on the same 'Santa Express' on Saturday, so it was good to hear you had a good time (and presumably they did too).

I remember when they first resurected the Bury to Ramsbottom run, and it's nice to see that it's still going strong. The highlight of the service for me was (and always will be) when Thomas The Tank Engine made a guest appearance. Glory days!

Although whilst Thomas may be long gone, there has never been a shortage of Fat Controllers!