Market street > Bury The Edwardian Victoria station is the last stop on the city centre boundary – an industrial greenhouse filled with trains and trams rushing off to other parts of the UK. Its restoration saw a meeting between the old and the new, bringing masses of light onto the tracks, and to the daily commute into the city.
Further along the line, tucked away in the corner of Heaton Park are a group of three geese that terrorise the goats and pigs in a small farm opposite Heaton Hall. They are reminiscent of the mafia or some sort of street gang, and often scare the children that visit. The rabbits are much more placid. Morning runners circle the park on their daily rituals. A yearly gathering of flower crowns and wellies descend onto the park each summer, after Parklife moved from Plattfields in Rusholme. There are two types of locals – the ones that protesting against it, and those who sell water from their front gardens when the festival goers walk past their road on the journey.
Prestwich is a place where I had learnt to be loud and bold, if only for a few years. I spent one Christmas here with a temporary mother and family, only to revert back to my small, quiet ways after the friendship had run its natural course.
I once had a close friend who lived in Whitefield, where a Jewish community had flourished at the beginning of this century. I went to my first shabbat there, and shared a meal with his welcoming family. It is said to be built on an old roman road, leading up to Manchester.
In the far distance, once you’ve nearly reach the end of the line, you’ll see Ramsbottom, a once sleepy rural town, now filled with coffee shops and antiques. We were once stopped in the road to let the cows move slowly from one field to the other, guided by a farmer on her horse. A few cows went astray, rebelling from its owner. We eventually we left to carry on to the cricket club.
At the end of the line, across a few boroughs and out into the greater part of Manchester is Bury. The faint sounds of tine whistles and fiddles echo out from The Met, known for its beautiful sound and love of all things folk. Its renovation will be revealed in the much colder months of this year.
A bustling market town full of hot smells, and rustling bags, cries from traders with their fruit prices, crackles of hot oil swilling against popping sausages in small food trucks. Rows of golden pastry hide meats and jellies, proudly illuminated in refrigerators.