Spine-tingling tales saved for rainy days
ONE day, and I mean one day, I will hopefully write the definitive account of my life at Crowden in Longdendale. It was, as they say these days, awesome, and 28 years of adventure.
Some of it is anchored firmly in the millstone grit which surrounds Bleak House, and other bits lost in the bogs of Bleaklow, surfacing now and then like a preserved relic as I get reminded of them.
Many of these stories have been shared in this column but, others, the out-of-worldly experiences, I’ve been saving for a rainy day.
A good example would be when I spotted this picture of Crowden Railway Station, posted by Rob Howard on the Tintwistle Then and Now Facebook Page.
The station was long gone when I arrived in the valley in 1980, but the brew cabin was still there and part of the platform, which is still visible today, as are the red-brick railway houses.
It was in one of these two-ups, two-downs that long time neighbour John Davies lived. John, who died a number of years ago in his 90s, was a railway worker and his evocative stories of days gone by were brilliant.
Even in the early eighties John had no electricity and kept warm sitting next to his coal-fired Rayburn. The kettle was always on but I dreaded the tea made with sterilised milk. I never liked to say and, besides, John always had biscuits. His sitting room, complete with Ovaltine calendar from the fifties, was a time-capsule and I felt very lucky to have been invited in.
Which brings me to Crowden Station and one of my many, many strange encounters in the vicinity.
It was around 8pm one foggy night in February 1981 and I had been attracted outside by what sounded like a bell. These were the days when you could cross the A628 both ways without risking your life. The ‘bell’ sounded like it was coming from the other side of the reservoir, so I crossed the road, down the stone steps and over the embankment towards John’s house.
It was difficult to see much but I could see a light swinging back and forth in time with the ‘bell’. Halfway over the dam I realised that the light was twenty feet above ground level.
As I got closer it became obvious, as the swinging lamp lit up the surrounding area that, there was in fact a large figure holding up the light on some kind of bridge over the railway lines. In the light of day I knew there was no bridge and with the hair bristling on the back of my neck, retraced my steps to the comfort of a bottle of Jameson’s back at home.
Next morning I went to see John, and as I recounted my experience his face cracked with a smile and he said: “That was the old signalman you saw, he used to wave to the drivers from the gantry if he needed anything.”
Looking at this picture with the retaining wall of Bleak House visible across the water, I wonder if this was the signalman?