Rock & Roll in Hebden Bridge

It was dark and damp and there was a mist, or maybe it was a fog, as I waited alone on the platform for the Calder Vale train to finally pull in. Pulling my mink fur collar up higher, it did nothing to keep out the chill. Strangely I found myself completely alone on this dreary dank, badly lit platform. Sounds and senses were heightened as I sat engulfed in my cream cashmere trying to beat off the damp that had begun to sink deep into my bones.

Solitude is something I normally like (and need on occasions) but tonight alone in the swirling mist sitting on the uncomfortable wrought iron railway bench took on a bit of a scary and worrying atmosphere. 

AS the time progressed the mist became fog, getting thicker and thicker and swirling heavier and heavier around my stilettos, I was finding I could see less and less and certainly not across the train line to platform 2. I was very grateful to my heavy cashmere ensconced with the large mink collar and my felt feathered wide brimmed hat to fight the Autumn air. After the Picture House lights, chattering, hilarity and popular music this was an unexpected mysterious scene I had not envisaged or encountered before when taking the train home after a jolly old evening of rock and roll with the ladies of Hebden Bridge in the beautiful Pennine hills and dales. 

The night had fallen quickly since stepping out of the smokey, pleasant and friendly
atmosphere of the annual city dance and into the eerie unwelcoming light of platform 1. Suddenly I focused on someone pacing somewhere close by; I could see no one though, only hear the purposeful striding of an anonymous companion. Whoever it was, never came closer or into view. I pulled my mink tighter and clutched my handbag as, with a long echoing toot reaching me through the fog, the train pulled to a slow halt and I leapt up the wooden steps and made my way along the narrow corridor to an empty compartment, sliding the door shut behind me I sank into the tapestry upholstered bench, relieved to be homeward bound.

Pulling away from the platform and the anonymous invisible strider I was safely chugging my way home to cotton and woolen mill town of Sowerby Bridge and free for a short while from the dank Yorkshire fog that had penetrated my lungs. Closing my eyes and resting my head back I began imagining my fine bone teacup and saucer of strong Yorkshire tea and supper of spam fitters and tinned fruit and evaporated milk that awaited me fireside at mum's.

27.10.15