I’m old enough these days to qualify for a Senior Rail card, so bugger the backache, failing hearing and arthritic toes, I decided to take advantage of Northern Rail’s generous offer and popped over to Carlisle for the day. The sun was shining, the train was on time, and I watched the northern countryside roll past my window while I listened to the noisy background chatter of my fellow passengers enjoying a pre-midday beer, as is the custom among young men on public transport in the UK.
On arrival in the ancient border city, I was surprised to find a whole host of Evangelical enthusiasts trying to convert the masses (and me) to The Way of The Lord. I had a leaflet in my hand before I got to the station exit, and had to negotiate two more stalls that bore the promise of eternal salvation before I got into the city centre. But when I actually arrived on English Street, in the middle of a Craft Fair, I looked around and almost went back to the station to let the potential converters know that there would be richer pickings for them if they shifted their focus about three hundred yards to the west. And they could also buy a hand made scarf and enjoy a burger while doing so.
I used to live in Carlisle and I like to think that I know it quite well. I like the city, it has an a no-nonsense approach to life and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. My first encounter with anyone from the city, on the day in 1990 when I arrived, was at a takeaway shop in Denton Holme. After I’d given my order to the girl behind the counter, there was a pause while she looked me squarely in the eye. Her eventual reply was… “Are you from London?”
So it was no surprise when I went into a pub near the cathedral, past the madding crowd at the craft fair, that when I asked if they had any bitters in stock, the gap-toothed elderly barman looked at me, sighed, then pointed unsmilingly to an IPA, saying “that’s a bitter.” Then he pointed at the Guinness. “That’s a bitter,” he repeated, as if he had to explain beer to this idiot Southerner. I had a little inward sigh of my own and ordered a pint of IPA. (What? I’m English. I don’t complain).
It was a very welcome pint though, and I settled down with it to watch the Ronnie Wood lookalike at the next table. He was older than me but boasted a very fine head of thick grey hair, and with his beads and laid back attitude I actually thought he must have been a relic from one of the cooler 1960s pop groups. I thought about striking up a conversation, but my Englishness kicked in and my attention wandered. It wandered over the bottles behind the bar, past the lone tattooed sixty-something drinker in the snug, out of the door and across the road – to a second hand bookshop, one of mankind’s greatest creations. Well, that was it. I downed my pint of bitter IPA and hurried over there to make sure that my attention and my physical presence were in the same place.
What a Heaven on Earth the shop was. It stocked thousands of second hand books, with shelves going off into the distance, as well as new titles on the ground floor. On top of that, it had a cafe attached complete with a courtyard outside. The cafe even sold ale. I bet if I’d asked for a bitter there I would’ve got one. I pictured myself on a future visit, sitting in the courtyard with a book in my hand, and a coffee and walnut cake on the table in front of me, next to my beer. I wondered if the Evangelists at the station knew about this place? Because it’s about as close to Heaven as a person can get in my book. They could pack up their leaflets and go home, their work done.
The place is called “Bookends” on Castle Street, near the Cathedral. I later found out that it stocks music in the cellar. Good job I didn’t know that at the time or I would’ve missed the football.
Ah yes, the football. Did I mention that this was the chief reason for my journey? I fancied watching a game and Carlisle United v Gillingham exerted its pull. So off I trotted down Warwick Road, getting there just in time for a pie before kick off. The caterers at Brunton Park (for the uninitiated, that’s the name of Carlisle United’s stadium) make a great soup and a lovely pie. However, I’m not so sure about combining the two, which is what they seemed to do with mine. I bit into it and after the customary scalding – because they are ALWAYS too hot, no matter where you go – I realised that, as my pie collapsed before me, they had put the soup IN the pie. That’s the only reason I can think of why it fell apart so easily and spilled all over the shelf. So if you want a hot soup pie, head to Brunton Park.
I won’t bore you with a match report, suffice to say I was pleased Carlisle won 1-0. There was a constantly-wriggling four year old boy in front of me, with a Carlisle top and a Manchester United hat (what’s that all about?!) and a fella behind me who kept tutting and shouting “Easy Ball!” every three minutes or so. I’ve no idea of the point he was making, but at least he managed to avoid swearing. I suspect that was a gargantuan effort for him, but he must’ve been aware of the young lad in front of me so all credit to him, as footballers say in post-match interviews.
Back up Warwick Road to the station, squinting into the late summer sunshine and avoiding the drifting cigarette smoke. The place was now devoid of Jesus fans, to be replaced by two Gillingham supporters about to make their long journey back to Kent. Assuming they lived in Gillingham of course.
At Haltwhistle, Tommy Shelby and the rest of his crew got on. They moved menacingly down the platform as my train pulled in and I was shouting silently to myself “DON’T-SIT-NEXT-TO-ME-DON”T-SIT-NEXT-TO-ME” in my best internal wheedling voice and for once it worked. Not only did they sit at the other end of the carriage, but they were no bother at all and anyway they got off at Hexham. So my internal whimpering did the trick!
I walked past my local on the way home from Prudhoe station, and thought briefly about popping in for a pint. I didn’t in the end, but I bet the would’ve had a pint of bitter on tap if I did.
The Universe was kind to me today; or maybe it was Jesus.
After all, I did read his leaflet.
Steve's Journal 