The Frozen Wastes of the North

In much the same way that ownership of a dog serves as an excellent excuse for  lengthy, lone woodland rambles, one of the great joys of having children is that it gives you a valid reason to embark on outings which, if undertaken without the alibi of an infant in need of fresh air and diversion, might appear slightly eccentric, not to say outlandish.  Admittedly it helps that Frankie is a little bit eccentric himself, as evidenced by this morning when he demanded, a propos of nothing whatsoever, that we go out and find some canal boats to look at.  

I must admit to entertaining some slight misgivings with regard to this proposal.  For a start the whole country was already under six inches of snow this morning, meaning, presumably, that the national public transport infrastructure would grind to a halt by mid-day.  And then there was the fact that Frankie had been ill for the past week, during which he hadn't expressed an interest in anything more arduous than curling up in front of CBeebies in his pyjamas (I spent one of those days off work looking after him, which was quite relaxing, at least for the first half-an-hour.  By the time Charlotte came home at 3:30 I was near to hysterical, and the constant onslaught of on-screen cuteness had turned my brain to a kind of semi-functioning mush, but that's another story). 

All things considered, then, the suggestion of a day out was fraught with hazards.  I envisaged an aborted journey to God Only Knows Where, featuring several hours spent freezing on a deserted railway platform,  a variety of mild to gale force temper tantrums, and at least one, perhaps two, incidences of pneumonia.  The sensible course of action was to resign the two of us to another day in our pyjamas, battling the particularly virulent strain of catatonia that only six hours in front of Thomas the Tank Engine and his ilk can induce.

Of course, I'm not particularly sensible and was, if anything, more thrilled by the prospect of shinily-painted canal boats than Frankie was.  Some hasty internet research and a phone call were enough to convince me that the trip was viable.  Not much more than an hour later- thanks to not one but two impeccably punctual trains- we arrived in a more or less absolutely deserted Macclesfield.  In the gathering gloom, we set out determinedly and in precisely the wrong direction for half a mile, before coming to our senses and stopping to ask directions of a man with a particularly unconvincing glass eye.  His instructions, unlike the handiwork of his surgeon, were perfectly authoritative (and even if they hadn't been, we would have been obliged to follow them, in order not to hurt his feelings, it can't be easy wandering the ravaged streets of Macclesfield in snow-drifts, permanently hampered by what is to all intents and purposes a billiard ball lodged fast in your left eye-socket)- and just ten minutes later, we found ourselves at our destination for the afternoon.  

The Town Marina- for this was the holy grail we had set our hearts on attaining, turned out to be a Godforsaken and iceblocked enclosure hidden behind a trading estate, where a collection of thirty-or-so primary-coloured barges, huddled against each other as if in protection against the howling gale, were presided over by a family of ducks.  In other words, just what we expected and well-worth climbing a mile up an icy incline from the train station to see.  I took some photographs, which in some future edited version of this post, you may be able to feast your eyes on, and Frankie spent a happy twenty minutes deliberating which of the narrowboats he would live on, if he had the choice.  Those two activities having pretty much exhausted the diversionary potential of the amenity (the Chandler's shop was open, but we had no immediate need for calor gas, lengths of rope, or dusty paperbacks entitled 'An Illustrated History of the Cheshire Waterways) we set out for home.  Well, OK- we set out to an unpromising-looking suburban boozer overlooking the canal bridge, which turned out not only to be warm and welcoming, but to offer children's sausage and chips for £3.75 a plate (we shared them between us) and the second half of Hearts versus Celtic on the big screen (we would have preferred Newcastle versus Middlesbrough, but let's not be picky).

All in all, a succesful afternoon out- particularly when you bear in mind that I, for one, would have defined 'success' at the start of the afternoon as any outcome not involving a visit to casualty.  Those results, then, in full:

Hearts 2 Celtic 1

Newcastle United 2 (Harewood, Ameobi)  Middlesbrough 0

Thomas the Tank Engine 0, Macclesfield 3 

Merry Christmas to one and all.

Comments

[Abby Schoneboom]

Eeeee, merry christmas, and hurray for colourful canal boats and escaping Thomas the bleeding tank engine!

[looby]

Yes, I'm having severe Tracey Beaker overload at the moment. Might need another port soon.

Last year we took ours on the Santa Special. It's a steam train which runs on the Haworth and Keighley Something Valley Railway. Sherry for the adults. Then when you get off, there's a Craggy Island-style fair.

[jonathan]

We've seen Santa in various places this year (he turned on the Levenshulme Christmas lights, arriving in style on a 192 bus) but a train has not been one of them. We did used to go on a Santa train out of Bury- the first year (2005) was maybe a bit too early, the carriage entered a tunnel en route to Ramsbottom and Frankie let out a blood-curdling scream, I think he feared he was being forcibly returned to the womb. I remember being particularly thankful of the sherry for the adults that year.