retiredmartin

April 2024. Wincobank. Sheffield.

Back in Sheffield, a Sunday without plans. Blimey.

The Tribune, an on-line subscription newspaper, told us to go to see the bluebells in Woolley Wood.

So we did. Tram from the bottom of our hill to the end of the line at Meadowhall Interchange,

20 minutes walk past Wincobank’s closed pubs and churches with trees growing out the top, and the odd burst of colour,

to a little used recreation ground not far off the M1 about to get its moment in the sun (yes, THAT moment of sun).

I’m the son of market gardener-cum-florists, but the extent of my knowledge would be to say “bluebell, innit“,

and both Mrs RM and I have the lowest possible boredom thresholds so we were scratching around after 2 minutes, reluctant to walk straight back but feeling we’d already seen it all (see also : almost any stately home or palace).

Even the obligatory stone carving,

with promise of “portals to parallel universes”, failed to detain us.

I’d hoped to head to the nearby pub, but the Royal Oak, Bass tat and all,

wasn’t opening for another hour and a half and the main attraction, a Thai food stall, had long gone.

And the prospects elsewhere in Wincobank looked decidedly limited, though obviously trying to get in keg clubs early is an emerging pastime.

Central Wincobank’s sole pub (Y.UR L.CAL) was awaiting conversion to apartments,

bring an end to reggae nights and “fatty butty bitch”, presumably a tradition South Yorkshire board game for which the rules are long lost.

Now, I’m no local politician, but it strikes me that Wincobank doesn’t need houses it needs open shops and cafes and pubs. Something must have been open once upon a time, mind…

There’s some “enchanted chairs” to sit and enjoy your picnic, but nothing to spend money on.

The faces on that bottom chair accurately describe Mrs RM’s discomfort at the lack of a “comfort break” at that moment.

As Joe Jackson sang, it’s different for girls who need a wee.

What happened to the she wee, Mrs RM ?

We darted back to the tram, despite the siren call of End Time Evangelism.

There’ll have been enough of that sort of thing in Dundee this weekend.