Open Writing

A trip to Barrow Bridge! This used to be a real treat in the days of my childhood. We lived just about as far as it was possible to be from Barrow Bridge, on the opposite side of Bolton, in an area that came to be known as Over Hulton. So travelling to our favourite picnic spot was quite an expedition, ranking these days with a trip to Blackpool.

The first part of our journey was a walk to Four Lane Ends where we caught the tram to Bolton town centre. From there we caught another tram to the Halliwell terminus. After this we had to walk down Smithills Dean Road and Smithills Croft Road to reach our destination, passing Barrow Bridge chimney on the way.

My father used to tease us, myself and two brothers, suggesting that it was possible to guess the number of bricks used in its construction. He said that there was a number somewhere on the chimney which revealed the exact amount. I remember the feeling of mounting excitement as we passed the chimney as it meant we were nearing the end of our journey. We never found out how many bricks there were.

Barrow Bridge was quite different in the 1920’s from what it is today. The cottages were occupied by ordinary working people who paid nominal rents. There was a shop near the entrance which had been one of the earliest Co-op shops.

This was closed down eventually when the advent of buses and cars, not to mention the change in the character of the village, made it redundant. But it was an exciting place to visit in my young days with its rows of sweet bottles and interesting novelties, as well as all the usual provisions one expects to find in a village general store.

Having bought our first pennyworth of sweets, we then spent some time hanging over the wall by the stream to watch the water rippling over the stones and waterfalls on its way through the village.

We usually took sandwiches for our dinner, but a very important ritual was crossing one of the little bridges which gave access to the cottages, to have our tea in one of the summer houses erected in the front gardens. Most of the cottages made a bit of profit by serving tea and homemade scones and cakes to visitors.

And what a wonderful repast it was, and how peaceful, sitting in someone else’s garden, the sound of the running brook delighting our senses.

In between dinner and tea there were 63 steps to be counted, both going up and coming down. The valley was to be explored, the brook being crossed gingerly by stepping on stones protruding from the water.

Sometimes we were able to paddle in a wide stretch of water near the bridge at the far end of the dirt road which passed the cottages. After this we had a sail on the lake with my father rowing the boat whilst my mother watched from a wooden bench conveniently placed for onlookers. A car park stands now where the lake used to be.

We were always sad when it was time to go home, especially with the prospect of the long journey before us. But another visit to the village shop to use up our spending money cheered us up.

My youngest brother was usually given a piggyback ride by my father on the way back to the tram, but Bobbie and I were too big and heavy for this. Our legs were a bit weary in the last lap of the walk from Four Lane Ends, but we wouldn’t have missed the trip for the world.

Barrow Bridge was also the Mecca for the annual pilgrimage made on Good Friday. When I was about 14 years of age, I joined the multitude. Never again!

I can only describe it as having been like a football crowd. Masses of mainly young people who had all arrived on Shanks’s pony
(walking) thronged the road through the village so that you could hardly move. Many more climbed the 63 steps and spread themselves on the grassy slopes at the top.

There was no rowdiness, just a lot of good-natured noise and fun. The shop and dozens of ice cream and refreshment stalls did a roaring trade, selling not only ice cream and food but also cane walking sticks, balls on pieces of elastic and other novelties. At the end of the day there was the long walk home. It just wasn’t done to catch the tram.

However, I preferred the quieter times and eventually it was possible to travel all the way from town on a bus. Not nearly so exciting and romantic as our family trips though, when I was young.