On Monday 1st May, it felt like there were many occasions to mark at once. Summer was actually in the air, and on time for once this spring. It also marked the tenth anniversary of launching my freelance writing business. I’ve learned a lot over the years, and have met many remarkable people. I also felt ready for a challenge, and to connect with nature and my own creativity. So I caught the tram and tram train to Rotherham Parkgate shopping centre and walked back home along the canal.

I will be leading a similar but much shorter walk on Sunday 14th May, and hopefully this post will give you a taste for walking creatively! https://www.thewritersworkshop.co.uk/events/canal-walk-and-nature-writing-workshop-wanne

The walk I’m leading for the Writers Workshop will take around two hours at a leisurely pace with time for writing en route and sticks to the towpath, which is entirely traffic free. In contrast, Monday’s walk was an epic adventure including a detour around New York football stadium (the home of Rotherham United before you think I really got lost.)

Starting as I waited for the tram, I wrote notes that turned into poems on my phone, using Google docs. I also took lots of photos. Sometimes I sat down at a particular location and took notice of the things that were happening around me. Sometimes I wanted to tell the story of where I was, and some poems just happened spontaneously as things happened. It’s interesting that when I write poems as they are happening, often something will come along at the right time to resolve the poem.

As a word of caution, if you are planning on doing this on a long walk – my walk was around twelve miles – I would recommend bringing a mobile powerpack with you, as my phone was almost out of battery by the time I arrived home.

Here’s more information about the canal: https://canalrivertrust.org.uk/enjoy-the-waterways/canal-and-river-network/sheffield-and-tinsley-canal

Anticipation

Tram Ride

Cathedral Square

Tram Train

The tram train is quiet.

The recorded voice message somehow subdued,

The doors beep and close

as the cathedral chimes half ten,

and we’re off, slowly, tentatively feeling our way along the tracks to castle square.

Boarded up old Primark shop,

Torn posters and graffiti.

Bright paint of Castle Gate bridge,

leading nowhere.

Empty grand buildings from Victorian to ultra modern.

Once over the bridge, the tram train unleashes its power,

restraining itself at Hyde Park,

An athlete, warming up. 

Now it’s flying, having fun.

The voice gets more jaunty and warns us to hold tight,

as if we’re at a fun fair.

Brakes scrape and no one gets on at the next stop.

Leans around the corner like a biker hugging the road

Catching the sharp bend jerkily like a ghost train,

heading to the ghost town of Attercliffe.

90s technology park looking dated,

new houses cluster around here now,

with a village cosiness but all mod cons,

a drive to charge your electric car.

Arena and stadium now

Olympic legacy park on the site of Don Valley Stadium

Where I watched U2 and the Chilli Peppers.

Centertainment car park empty,

Wincobank hill in the distance,

Houses ribboned with woodland,

Huge blue mass of IKEA.

Meadowhall’s green glass domes,

a signpost to Timbuktu.

Cyclists passing.

Car parks look empty.

The river surface is glassy.

Scrapes and judders as we change direction, then stop

under the huge weight of the double decker motorway bridge

No one seems concerned.

And now we drift along, silently,

Onto the rails.

The tram train runs like it’s greased with butter.

Past woods and stacks of containers,

Magna science centre in the old steelworks,

Bobbing up and down gently, speeding past mills, 

Steel recyclers and the New York stadium.

This is Rotherham.

Spire of the minster dark against the white clouds

Next stop Parkgate.

Accelerating to warp speed

past silos and corrugated iron,

CCTV towers, piles of gravel

saw tooth roofed factories,

Still, rippling water.

The other side of Parkgate

On the other side of the railway tracks,

chiffchaffs call.

The path is soft earth and grass.

As the tram train returns without me.

A sharp, fresh smell blows on the breeze.

Traffic recedes to a gentle hush.

Water reflecting blue boat paint

Dimpling gently in the wind.

Something stirs to nibble a slice of bread,

floating among cut grass and apple blossom petals at the end of the dock,

Nudging the bread as it takes a bite.

Woodland clearing

Smell of fast food fries fills the air

then disappears, replaced by the delicate floral scent of cow parsley.

Woodland clearing scattered with jigsaw pieces and burned springs.

Wren repeats its sweet call next to the flyover.

A dismembered purple tennis ball,

bridal arches of bramble and wild rose,

birds safe to sing in their sanctuary –

song thrush’s creative stream of impressions

and blackbird’s sweet melancholy melody.

Smaller songbirds contributing their twittering trills,

with the soft hush of the breeze in new leaves.

Abandoned

Abandoned boatyard,

gently rusting, rotting hills,

DIY projects given up on.

Gates twined with nettles,

eerie yet peaceful.

Factory

Martins swoop, wheel and chatter

in the stately wake of an approaching duck.

Then the air hums and smells like hot rubber

Busy factory whirs constantly echoing against buildings,

building up a constant ringing him, sighing hiss, rumble and fizz.

Forbidden

Thwarted in Rotherham.

Take a diversion, past the glass factory

and through a flickering underpass.

Getting caught up in the football crowd,

optimistic in red and white.

The canal path is blocked,

An elaborate diversion is suggested

on a sign blocking the path.

It feels like summer now,

industrial and urban.

I improvise, following directions

of my own invention,

that get me back on the towpath,

through level crossings and spooky 

litter-strewn lanes,

a path scarred with remains of fires.

Back onto a forbidden but well used

stretch of towpath.

The great outdoors

It’s the great outdoors!

No more barriers –

just silver birches

unfurling bracken.

The urban is receding again now,

the canal, a different world.

Past a smallholding with a small flock of goats

cropping the glass contentedly.

The smallest kids bleats insistently 

as a collie passes by, pretending it’s not a wolf.

None of the other goats pay it any attention .

Tinsley Viaduct

Constant roar of traffic,

people and things going places.

North to South, South to North,

Gripping the steering wheel and concentrating.

Below, seedheads float aimlessly,

Families cycle, spot fish in the water.

Birds sing louder to drown out the motors.

Tinsley Marina

The top of a flight of locks,

domesticity of moored boats

With rotary washing lines.

A fisherman has set his shelter up for the day,

casting his line into dark green water.

Seraphic Academy

On a deserted, industrial street,

There’s a familiar shape of a Victorian

Sheffield school.

It’s a school again now,

Doors open, despite it being a bank holiday.

Are the children training to be angels?

Attercliffe canal moorings

Attercliffe canal moorings,

no boats are moored,

just some people fishing,

set up well for the day.

Water drifts, fish plop,

distant roar of traffic,

and the low hum of electricity,

pylons overhead.

Even a siren doesn’t drown out the birds.

Suddenly a shout for a net.

A fisherman struggles with something

large and thrashing in the water weed.

A pike, two feet long

They lay it out, take photos

Before lowering it into the water again

Trapped in a keep net,

They say they will let him go.

It won’t be fooled again.

Worksop Road aqueduct 

Who would know it was here from the road,

intersecting with the railway bridge?

If you weren’t paying attention from the canal

you would forget there is just air underneath. 

Attercliffe Footbridge 6a

How long has it been

since anyone last crossed

Attercliffe footbridge 6a?

Heading straight into a foundry,

through a steel shuttered doorway.

Rusty paint and perforated steel,

A daily commute now forgotten.

Magnet Fishing

Magnet fishing by Cadmon bridge –

they’ve found a cheese knife,

ready to use. It looks unfinished,

a little rough around the edges,

maybe a discarded imperfection.

It’s been in the water a long time 

Walking home

I’ve reached the canal’s end

on the home stretch now,

legs aching, they still bend,

carrying me the final steps I need to go.

On this day, summer arrived,

A day to do us proud.

I’m glad I strived, and have nearly arrived.

Time outside, feet on the ground. 

A chance to reconnect,

I took time to stretch.

A day I will look back and recollect

the dandelions and vetch.

Every year at Christmas, my Nan (known as Nanny but this gets confusing for posh people – I mean my grandmother of course!) made delicious stuffing. It was baked in an oven dish – not actually stuffed inside anything, so I carried on eating it, even after I became a vegetarian.As a child, stuffing was part of my grandparent’s loving world – so much love and contentment made out of stale bread.

Nanny was a very traditional cook, rooted in Nottingham. The most exotic thing she ate was gammon and pineapple, and she was always very suspicious of garlic – but her cooking was always delicious and a link back to older, poorer times, when there could be no waste. Nan’s portions were always magnificent – offered out of generosity and gratitude, when during her childhood, her stomach must have often been empty.

My mum carried on the tradition, and the smell of sage always filled my nose on Christmas eve as she soaked the breadcrumbs. The stuffing would come out of the oven, moist in the middle but crispy on the edges – an essential part of a festive dinner. But the best bit was the next day, when the stuffing had solidified so much it could be sliced and was a great sandwich filling to take on walks between Christmas and new year, especially with a spoonful of cranberry sauce. Even though it’s essentially a bread sandwich – don’t let that put you off.

Eventually, I started hosting Christmas myself, and I asked Mum for the recipe. She shrugged and said that there wasn’t really a recipe. There wasn’t really very much to it – just onions or leek, sage and a huge pile or breadcrumbs, usually cheap white rolls. We were very much a wholemeal Hovis sort of family, but Mum said that the white bread soaked up the flavour better.

So I made my own version, adding my own twenty-first century vegan (try it with nutritional yeast flakes added to the mix) and Sheffield twists (a dash of Henderson’s relish!). There are no quantities – this is pure guesswork. This year, in the strange Covid 19 Christmas of 2020, I made it again, just for myself. I could carry on making it through the year, but somehow, I don’t. It’s as if my family stuffing can only be made at Christmas, even though it would be good with a Sunday dinner at any time of the year!

So, here it is. My own version. Please try it, especially if you only know those dry round stuffing balls that you make up out of a packet. Those packets look cheap but basically, you are paying a lot for a tiny amount of breadcrumbs and dried onion and herbs. Much better with the real thing – and remember that the stuffing is there to stuff you, designed as a thrifty way of filling your plate and making the more expensive stuff go further. And don’t forget the gravy!

1. Use one large leek or onion – or both if you are making a larger amount – chopped up and sauteed in a generous amount of olive oil. Add a couple of cloves of garlic. Keep the heat low to medium, so the leek/onion becomes translucent and soft.
2. Add herbs, seasoning and maybe some spices. The more herbs the better. I have fresh sage growing in my garden. I used the sage leaves I’d grown from seed this year, but I think it needed more. I should have raided the older sage bush but it was chucking down with rain when I made this the day before Christmas eve, and I thought I had enough. But if you think you have enough, always add a bit more sage.
3. Shred your bread. I’ve used the food processor to make breadcrumbs for stuffing, but I think larger chunks are better – just rip the bread into small shreds with your hands and put it in a large bowl. This is quite cathartic. I think it makes the texture of the stuffing softer. This year, I had about half a loaf of Tesco’s seeded batch. I usually freeze bread for sandwiches, but I put this one in the freezer slightly squashed and I couldn’t separate the slices without mangling them! So a bit of a departure from the usual white cobs (East Midlands word for bread rolls).
4. Stir the breadcrumbs into the leek/onion mixture, along with a crumbled stock cube (I used an OXO vegetarian stock cube) or a couple of teaspoons of vegetable bouillon.
5. Add enough boiling water to soak the bread and create a mush. I know that’s not the most appetising word, but neither is moist, apparently! What you’re going for is soggy, but not too soggy. Now is a good time to add more seasoning if you don’t think you’ve added enough. If in doubt, leave the kitchen and come back in. Your nose should be hit by a lovely sagey aroma.
6. Spoon the mixture into a shallow, greased oven-proof dish. It doesn’t really matter what it is, but ideally, it should only be a couple of inches / about five centimeters deep – you don’t want your stuffing to become unstable. Drizzle (or pour) olive oil on the top. You can use sunflower oil or dot with marg. I like olive oil though. It’ll probably be really expensive after Brexit. Thanks for that. Nanny probably used lard!
7. Cook for around thirty minutes at about 200 degrees centigrade. If in doubt, just bung it into a hot oven while your vegetables are roasting and your main dish is cooking.
8. Eat it! Straight from the oven, it will have a crisp shell on top and will be slightly molten underneath. It will go perfectly with the rest of your Christmas dinner.
9. Allow the leftovers to cool and put them in the fridge. Slice up cold to put in sandwiches (or cobs) or heat up to go with your delicious leftover meals. Bubble and squeak is also one of my favourites (fried up mashed potato with leftover sprouts/cabbage), but that’s another story.

Hello! Many of us have been appreciating nature more in lockdown. Sadly, the environment is something that too many people still take for granted. That’s why Springwatch is such a fantastic TV programme, allowing us to see wildlife in action. I hope you like this short story. It’s a children’s story, but there should be something in it to take you back to your own childhood.

Night Wings

Elsie was sent to bed straight after Springwatch. Mum and Dad wouldn’t let her hang a bedsheet on the wall outside with a torch shining on it. She wanted it to attract some of the beautiful moths she had seen on TV that night, and she stomped reluctantly up the stairs.

‘I don’t like moths anyway. They ate holes in my best jumper,’ Mum grumbled, following Elsie to her room.

‘I’m not sure they’re the same kind of moths,’ Elsie said, remembering the dusty, grey creatures that had flown out of Mum’s wardrobe. The moths on TV had been huge, with exotic-looking colours and markings.

Mum unfolded a fresh pair of pyjamas from the chest of drawers and drew the curtains.

‘Can we make a moth trap tomorrow?’ Elsie took her favourite book from her shelf, The Potting Shed Fairies. She had already read it four times, but she loved the mischievous creatures who were always getting into trouble.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Mum said. ‘But don’t bring any creepy crawlies into the house. Sleep tight. Make sure the bugs don’t bite.’ She kissed Elsie on the top of her head and shut the door.

As soon as Elsie heard Mum’s footsteps go downstairs, she pulled back the curtains and opened the window wide, so she could hear the tawny owl who perched on the tree in the garden and see the moon and stars. Then she snuggled under her duvet, reading about the fairies’ adventures until the book dropped out of her hands. She sleepily turned off the bedside lamp.

 

She opened her eyes. Something around her rustled and tickled her back. Elsie sat up. The rustling became a flutter and she felt a rush of air around her. Wings had sprouted through the back of her pyjamas and now they spread out wide, the length of the bed, deep red and darkest velvet black, shining in the light of the full moon streaming through the window.

Elsie gasped. She felt her wings with her fingertips. The wings were feathery but furry, made of overlapping, iridescent scales. These were moth wings…

She wondered if she could flap them, and she could. She stretched ad flexed her wings, scarcely believing they were there. She stood in the middle of the room, flapping her wings as fast as she could, varying her technique until finally, her feet left the ground. She could hover if she fluttered her winds, gently but rapidly, and she tried to swoop up to the ceiling, but there wasn’t enough room and she bumped her head.

She drifted back down to the floor, the moon shining right into her eyes. I will fly to the moon, she thought, the words forming in her mind from nowhere. But she felt a longing in her ribcage to fly up towards the glowing, enticing ball of light.

Elsie flitted onto the windowsill and kept hovering while she squeezed through the narrow gap. Then she was free, above the back garden, where the flowers seemed to glow in the moonlight. She swooped and glided and beat her wings steadily to gain height, until the street was far below, and the yellow bus that crawled along the road looked like a caterpillar on a branch.

Moths and bats flitted around her and she laughed in delight, playing chase, skimming low over trees and startling the roosting birds. But the moon seemed so close. She was sure she could reach it.

Elsie circled higher, passing a scream of swifts now silent, sleeping on the wing. The ground looked further and further away, until all she could see was pin pricks of light, just like the view from an aeroplane.

The air suddenly grew thin and difficult to breathe. She gasped for air and the wind whipped up around her, making her tumble out of control. She flapped frantically, but the air was too fierce for her and she fell in a plummeting spiral. All she could do was hold her wings out wide to slow her descent.

Then cool, fresh air flooded her lungs as she steadied and drifted down. The lights below grew bigger and clearer. She rode the air currents until she could see the shape of the town below, the river sparkling like a silver ribbon.

Elsie swooped like a swallow above the still, dark water until she recognised the shape of her street. There was her house, with her bedroom window wide open. She was tired and wondered what Mum would say in the morning when she saw her wings.

But she couldn’t resist one last low swoop, heading for the darkness of her room. She dived, folding her wings for a brief moment. But she collided with the tawny owl as he launched from his tree and they tumbled to the ground together. She smelled mind as she crawled to the ground. Soft leaves broke her call. The last thing she saw in the moonlight was the owl, hooting angrily as it flapped off, on silent wings.

 

Someone called her name and she could see dappled sunlight shining through leaves gently waving in the breeze. The smell around her reminded her of mint chocolate, toothpaste and chewing gum. She was in her pyjamas, curled up in the middle of the mint patch.

‘Elsie! What are you doing?’ Mum’s shadow loomed over her. ‘You’ve squashed it flat.’

Elsie sat up, feeling the sides of her body and up her back. Something seemed to be missing.

‘It’s that Springwatch programme again, isn’t it?’ Mum said. ‘What are you doing this time?’

‘Being a moth,’ Elsie said. ‘I think it was real,’ she added, wondering.

‘Anyway, breakfast’s ready.’ Mum sighed. ‘And then we can find an old sheet for your moth trap.’

I have written this diary as my contribution to the Mass Observation Archive – they are calling on people all over the country, of all ages and from all backgrounds, to document everything they did on the 12th May 2020, as part of their social research and to provide records of what life was like during lockdown. http://www.massobs.org.uk/write-for-us/12th-may

I know this means that my contribution is no longer confidential, but the actual record that I send off to Mass Observation will be anonymous, so I suppose it’s fine to post it here! You can still take part in it yourself if you want to!

12th May Diary

On Tuesday 12^th May, I wake up rather groggily next to my partner. He sleeps in for longer than usual too. He is currently furloughed from his retail job, and my work is currently over teatime and the early evenings so waking up earlier is more difficult. I am feeling more tired at times – I suppose it could be living with a constant undercurrent of worry and anxiety about the Covid 19 pandemic, although we are in a much better financial position than many other people.

I take a shower, washing my hair and shaving my legs. I’ve not been keeping up with that as often as usual this time in the year as there aren’t many opportunities to dress up! The weather is cool today with a mixture of clouds and sunshine – but at some point, I will get my legs exposed to some sun in my back garden!

I have some leftover apple charlotte I made last night for breakfast, with soya and coconut yogurt. I’m vegan and have been lucky that I’ve been able to pick up my usual veg box and extra food supplies from my local whole food shop, although rather than a browse around the shop, you now have to email your order a day in advance and pick it up from the shop’s carpark. It’s a good excuse for a walk, as well as my trip to our local small Asda with my partner on Wednesday mornings, to buy shopping for an elderly lady as well as for me. These small activities now count as major social events for me!

I make some cheese and lettuce wraps for lunch with some tortillas that have been lurking in the freezer for ages, fill a bottle of water and set off on one of my big walks. Since the lockdown started, I’ve been taking a longer walk once a week. The time limit on the lockdown rules was confusing – no one actually stipulated that it should be an hour maximum, so my solo walks have been several hours long, walking from my house and exploring new parts of Sheffield and the surrounding countryside. I have a full day off today, so I can take as long as I like.

Today, I start by walking the streets of Walkley, where I live, a suburb of Sheffield that expanded in Victorian times from a small village and a collection of farms. My route takes me along the streets that line the side of the Rivelin Valley, a mixture of terraced housing and pre-war semi-detached houses. It’s heartening to see the rainbows and teddy bears in the windows, and the messages and hop-scotch grids that children have chalked on the pavement. I reach the gates of Walkley Cemetery – a Victorian cemetery for the parish church, which is some distance away. As I walk downhill, enjoying the peace and wildlife, I walk into the woods and back into an adjoining graveyard, the Catholic Cemetery, which takes me down to the bottom of the Rivelin Valley.

I walk the short distance past weirs and the picturesque remains of old mills to Malin Bridge, where the Rivelin joins the river Loxley, which eventually flows into the River Don. It’s usually a busy traffic junction too, but it’s fairly quiet today. Still, it feels a little jarring to be in the “real world” for a few minutes, away from nature.

The path that runs into the Loxley valley looks very welcoming. I have walked a lot around here over the past couple of months. Sheffield has five rivers, four of them running into the river Don. On the west side of the city, the rivers are a popular way to walk into the Peak District or just to enjoy the wildlife. A century – or only a few decades ago – the rivers were busy with mills and factories, using the water power to grind cutlery and all sorts of other industries.

I reach one of the biggest mills, the former Hepworth Refactory, which made heat-resistant bricks, now standing empty and derelict. Bovis bought the site to develop housing there in 2006, but this was scuppered by local opposition and probably the financial crash. I turn up Storrs Bridge Lane which runs steeply up to Loxley Road. I can’t resist walking through the Heras fence surrounding the derelict Claremont House nearby. Once the grand residence of the factory owner, it later became the social club for the factory employees, but has been abandoned since the early 90s. It’s now a sad ruin, but I love taking photos of old ruined buildings, and enjoy the spooky feeling!

Checking my OS map, I cross the road and walk up a lane which carries on, very straight uphill. The lane is gated but is a signposted right of way, so I have to climb a stile which requires holding onto an iron bar to balance, so I apply hand sanitiser afterwards. The tarmacked lane diverts to a farm, but the path carries on, over another couple of stiles (more hand sanitiser), crossing another lane and up another steep old unpaved lane until I get to some woods – but the path still stays straight.

I glimpse my last view of the Loxley Valley and now I have a dramatic view into the Don Valley – I can even see huge steelworks in the far distance to the east, as well as conifer forests and Peak District moors. I could stick to lanes from this point onwards, but there is a tempting path that runs past a farm, marked “Sheffield Country Walk” – unfortunately, the path is set to take me into a field full of curious bullocks and a fierce-looking cow, but I just walk through one field instead and I’m back on the lane, heading into the village of Worrall. Worrall is much nicer than its name suggests – well-kept cottages and houses, a secondary school in one of the most picturesque settings you can imagine, a post office and several pubs. The pubs are all closed at the moment, but it would be a lovely place for a pub lunch and a pint – and a less exhausting walk with friends or family on a Sunday afternoon! An artist has placed a carved stone heart supported by the letters NHS at the crossroads. This village is so tidy that even the daffodil stalks have been tied into nice neat bundles.

I walk along pavements, then I take a path through woodland that takes me into Oughtibridge, a village alongside the river Don. I sit on a ledge near the bridge to eat my lunch and I’m surprised by a brown and white collie dog who shows a brief interest in my wrap before paddling into the shallows near the bridge to lap some river water. I’m definitely getting tired legs now and it takes quite a bit of effort to get up off the stone ledge and onto the path. The path along the river Don at Oughtibridge is lovely, shaded by trees from the ancient Beeley Wood. I pass dog walkers and families exercising and we exchange friendly greetings.

A high-pitched whine fills the air – I’m approaching the Abbey Forged Products factory. It’s a huge modern complex, which makes steel products for the oil and gas industry. It seems to be in full operation today. The factory is at the end of Beeley Wood Lane, which the path joins onto, and there’s a lot of litter on the roadside of this otherwise picturesque lane and evidence of fly-tipping, although it’s been softened in recent weeks by the spring growth: nettles, herb Robert, cow parsley and Jack-by-the-hedge, and I can still catch a whiff of wild garlic. I have fond memories of test driving my car here seven years ago, about this time of year and being surprised by how green and pretty it was.

Then Beeley Wood lane joins Claywheels Lane. I’m closer to home now, but the landscape is now a lot more industrial. As the river curves round and I see the Winn Gardens housing estate across the playing fields on the other side of the river, two children play on the weir, and I catch sight of a derelict factory with rusting corrugated iron and broken windows. I don’t know why I’m drawn to derelict places – I’m terrified of being in danger, so I’d never go inside anywhere like that, but I love wandering around and taking photos. I love the way that nature reclaims buildings, and I find beauty in decay. The site seems accessible from the road, across a ditch and I see a man in a hi-vis jacket duck through the trees and along the pavement, checking his phone. Is he a security guard, or has he been there to take pictures of the buildings? I am tempted to have a quick peek, but my legs are aching and I’m not too far from home now.

Soon, I pass familiar buildings, such as Fletchers bakery, with a lovely rainbow banner for the NHS and key workers, and the branch of Howden’s kitchens, where I bought my kitchen units from two years ago. We have been slowly renovating our Victorian terraced house, and we were supposed to be having our bathroom renovated in March – the work was cancelled due to the lockdown, but hopefully this will happen eventually! The Sainsbury’s supermarket, where part of Fletchers used to stand, is still open, and there is a steady stream of shoppers.

The Penistone Road junction is quite busy with traffic, but I turn right onto Leppings Lane, which seems much quieter. This takes me around the back of Hillsborough Stadium, home of Sheffield Wednesday. Hillsborough is such a big part of my life that it’s just an area of Sheffield – it’s where I work, shop and walk. However, to most people living outside the area, the Hillsborough disaster is the first thing that they think of. Not that I don’t think about it – there’s always a poignancy, especially as I pass the memorial on Catch Bar Lane – there are always bouquets of flowers and football shirts here. There’s a lovely tribute to the NHS and key workers on the gates of Hillsborough Primary School.

I walk down the beautiful lime Avenue in Hillsborough Park, which is busy with families and dog walkers. I now feel quite stiff but it’s a good feeling, knowing that I’ve probably walked further than anyone in the park today! It’s sad to walk past the chained-up playground, remembering the week before lockdown, when I last saw some of the learning disabilities clients from work playing here with my colleagues. I also think of the large annual festival held here, Tramlines. Last year, I saw Manic Street Preachers and Chic here, as well as volunteering to do wristbanding – which seemed like a bit too much like hard work at the time! Within a few days, the park was immaculate again. But such a huge gathering of people seems impossible at the moment. It’s been cancelled for this year. I hope that it can return next year – Hillsborough. Park is the main venue of the festival, but the free fringe part of Tramlines takes over the whole city. I was looking forward to going to some fringe gigs with friends and going with the flow this year, but that won’t be happening!

It’s eerie to walk down Middlewood Road, Hillsborough’s main shopping street, with all the shops closed and shuttered. The doors of the indoor shopping arcade are open and the lights are on in Home Bargains and the Boots Pharmacy, but the lights in the arcade are dimmed. It suddenly feels as if I’m in a disaster movie.

Now I’m on the final stretch of the journey after Hillsborough Corner – before the lockdown, this was one of the most heavily polluted places in Sheffield. I walk past the tram stop, the old swimming baths, now a Wetherspoons, the bus interchange, the Victorian Hillsborough barracks, which is now a Morrisons supermarket and a shopping centre, past the top of the street where I usually work and up through the Langsett Estate and the Grammar Street Park (created by clearing slum housing in the 1970s), until I’m back home again! My Garmin fitness watch shows that I’ve walked just over twelve miles today.

I tell my partner about the day’s adventures and relax with a can of cider in the garden. My legs are stiffening up rapidly and I seem to have pulled a muscle at the top of my left leg! I have a bubble bath while reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins – I finally feel ready for reading something dystopian again, and then do some gentle yoga stretches.

I decide I’m not really fit for anything constructive this evening after that, so I heat up the pie I made yesterday – made with a few curry leftovers, an onion, red lentils and rehydrated soya chunks and a pastry topping, it’s a lot nicer than it sounds, and I roast a few stalks of asparagus from my veg box. I shred some lettuce with a spring onion and make a salad dressing with olive oil and vinegar. My partner tells me it smells terrible! I finish off the apple charlotte for pudding and then settling down to watching a DVD with a bit of knitting. We watch a couple of episodes of Jeeves and Wooster with Hugh Laurie and Stephen from the early 90s. They both look so young, but they are so funny, and just what I need after a long day of walking and a couple of long months spent worrying and being a key worker.

I’m back at work tomorrow teatime, and even though the long walk tired me out physically, it has been so good for my mind. I hope that when things get closer to “normal” again, I can show my family and friends the beautiful and interesting places I’ve discovered on my walks.

 

This is my tribute to Joe Ashton: long-serving Labour MP, journalist, novelist and playwright – and one of my first writing and editing clients. He was diagnosed with dementia several years ago and sadly, he has passed away today. 

His daughter, Lucy, who is a journalist at the Sheffield Star, has written a wonderful tribute to her dad: Lucy’s tribute to her dad, Joe Ashton.

When I first became a freelance writer and editor, I met Joe Ashton, who wanted someone to type, edit and organise the second volume of his memoirs, Joe Blow, concentrating on his vivid memories of his childhood in 1930s Attercliffe and during wartime.

Working with Joe on his book was sometimes a frustrating, time-consuming process, with lots of chops and changes, but also with an excitement and enthusiasm about words. I learned a lot about writing and how to communicate from Joe. In the end, together, we produced a book to be proud of. Many people bought it when it went on sale in the Sheffield Star shop, and the proceeds raised hundreds of pounds for the Salvation Army, Joe’s favourite charity. Here is a taster for the book which was featured in the Sheffield Star in 2014: The Bread and Dripping Generation.

At first, not knowing much about dementia then, I wasn’t too concerned when he said he was “losing words”, but after a while, it was clear that there was something seriously wrong. I was working with people with dementia by then, so I could recognise some of the symptoms. I haven’t seen him for several years, due to the deterioration of his symptoms, but I always thought of him fondly.

During this Covid 19 crisis, my usual part time job working with people with learning disabilities has transformed into a different sort of care job, working with vulnerable older people in their own homes, several of them with dementia. I’ve naturally been thinking of Joe a lot for the past few days. Hearing the news of his death is something I’ve been expecting for a while, but particularly poignant to hear it on BBC Radio Sheffield’s lunchtime news today. Lots of love to Joe’s family and friends.

 

Red Rose Blues – for Joe Ashton

 

This is the story of a good Labour man,

With a bad case of Red Rose Blues.

Born in the back streets, knowing the price of coal

Was too high, in the hungry thirties,

In the smoke-black terraces of Attercliffe,

Where even the sparrows coughed,

And the kids shivered and starved.

In a city where the Don was empty of life,

He could find a spark of soul in anything,

Even in the Sodom and Gomorrah of the Blitz,

When he watched his house burn down,

And they rescued their wireless from the flames –

But left its hire purchase bills to burn.

 

As he rebelled against grammar school life

In the posh part of town, refusing to wear uniform,

He learned that words were tools, weapons, an escape hatch.

Writing down the bones; telling the truth;

Even lying through your teeth could make the world a better place;

A way of escaping outdoor lavs and tin baths for everyone;

Words could weave streets in the sky, a shiny new city,

And make them come true, in glorious Technicolour.

 

His heart was stolen by a red-haired, red-hearted girl,

Who matched him word for word through good times and bad.

Together, they fought for a better world,

And sometimes, each other. But there was always love;

It always ran deep in him, like the fire to keep fighting.

 

He was born with a wild mind, collecting the small details of life

Like garden seeds germinating in his pocket.

By old age, it contained lost streets, theatres and picture palaces,

Spiralling out of him like tendrils of bindweed,

Like the corners of his eyebrows,

While the words he reached for escaped him like racing pigeons.

In the end, he got lost in his dreams.

In his mind, he was always still a snot-nosed kid with a holey jumper,

Running through Attercliffe’s broken wartime streets

A pile of scuffed library books in his arms.

 

By Anne Grange.