Open Writing

There was a pot of gold buried in the valley somewhere at the bottom of Shelley Bank, but we didn’t have time to go dig it up.

The rainbow kept pace with us all the way from Upper Cumberworth, arching over the fields around Emley Moor, and dropping heavy hints in the general direction of Scissett, but it was no good. We were not to be diverted.

We were heading for the Christmas Market in Barnsley, and the sky was blue despite the rainbow and a weather forecast which had suggested that if we were going anywhere the best means of transport would be an Ark.

The temperature was suggesting that we’d arrived in Australia by taking a wrong turning at the Sovereign, and we were about to be hit by summer and Christmas simultaneously.

Global warming was cooking us nicely, and if anyone had suggested we were in for a white Christmas, we’d have thought they were bats.

When we hit tropical Barnsley, and unloaded ourselves from Blunderbus, I even slung my coat back into the van.

“This is unnatural,” Sandra said, as we wandered amongst the stalls. “It’s December, there are people wandering about in T-shirts, and I don’t think they’re totally insane.”

“Um,” I said.

I was too busy disentangling myself from my scarf and accepting the offer of a German gingerbiscuit to reply.

In a bit, I was cruising about with a small Christmas tree loaded into the scooter basket, dodging people in crinolines and a chap in a rather fetching stovepipe hat to get at the stalls.

It wasn’t just the climate that was weird: I was showing distinct signs of getting my Christmas shopping done at one fell swoop.

The hat gave me an idea, and I swerved to take in the chap flogging hot chestnuts. (Last year, I recalled vividly, I’d bought a couple of bags and shoved them down my jacket to keep warm, wishing I’d got space for another two down my boots.)

A pair of blond Teutonic lads with guitars were singing Paul Simon, a few folk were dancing in the street, the gluwein was flowing, a couple of small people were galloping past with helium balloons so big I expected to see them floating off over the fairy lights, and Sandra was nattering to a stallholder in German.

This was cosmopolitan South Yorkshire and no mistake.

Whilst Sandra staggered back to Blunderbus with the first load, I parked myself to listen to the music.

The blond boys had been replaced by a junior brass band, whilst the far end of the market was being busked by an accordionist they wouldn’t have slung out of Montmartre.

It was getting dark now, and the lights round the stalls were on, sending up a glow into the Mediterranean evening. People were being so cheerful and friendly you had the odd sort of feeling that the event had been scripted by Charles Dickens whilst he was in a good mood.

When Sandra got back, I realised that what with the chestnuts and being fed so many free samples of various goodies, we’d forgotten about lunch, so we had baked spuds from one of the stalls whilst we waited for the fireworks to start.

Afterwards, we pottered back to the van to unload the rest of our festive spoils. Both of us had managed to resist getting a large plaster bust of Nefertiti which a barker who’d kept barking full volume all day was flogging by the ton, but we seemed to have bought pretty well everything else.

You could have knocked me down with something a lot smaller than a crock of gold when global warming nipped off for Christmas on Bondi Beach, and left us snowed up ever since. Wonder what it’s like in tropical Barnsley?