Joining Albert on a trip along tunnel of memories
THIS iconic view from one of the old Woodhead Railway tunnels was probably taken circa 1930 and although the hill above Birchen Bank Wood and the red grouse are still there, the castellated Woodhead Station is long gone and the guy standing patiently on the platform, let’s call him Albert Brocklehurst, was looking out onto a completely different world to ours and a world soon to change even more with the outbreak of World War 2.
Albert could have seen action in the Great War; one of the lucky ones who came home to Woodhead, because many did not return and their names are inscribed on a memorial in St James’ Church further down the valley at Crowden.
The valley had thinned out a bit since 1914, when he would have been jostling for space on the small platform, but here he is, on his Jack Jones.
Of course he would hear the train a coming long before he saw it as the locomotive squeezed its way through the snugfitting three-mile tunnel before emerging into the light, to the sound of the hacking coughs of the boilerman.
It was said that sometimes the smoke was so bad coming through the tunnel that the men on the footplate had to lay down with rags over their faces.
The trains were noisy, dirty and hazardous to health and clothing.
Locomotives belched plumes of thick, acrid steam. Passengers opened windows at their own risk, avoiding flying pieces of sharp grit and flickering embers in the open air.
Even though the Woodhead Tunnels had bore holes letting air in from the moorland above, the sulphurous fumes, coughing and spluttering was likened to the Devil’s furnace and brought with it fears of ‘black damp’ or ‘choke damp’, which afflicted miners.
Choke damp is not a single gas but a mixture of unbreathable gases left after oxygen is removed from the air and typically consists of nitrogen, carbon dioxide and water vapour.
One parsimonious commentator in the mid 19th century said that the whole of the Woodhead Tunnel area smelt like ‘Cheap port wine’, while another after taking a ride through a tunnel said ‘ I was coughing and spluttering like a boy on his first cigar.’
The American-born journalist Ralph David Blumenfeld wrote in his diary on June 23, 1887, that ‘I had my first experience of Hades to-day and if the real thing is to be like that I shall never again do anything wrong.
‘The compartment in which I sat was filled with passengers who were smoking pipes, as is the British habit and, as the smoke and sulphur from the engine fill the tunnel all the windows have to be closed.
‘The atmosphere was a mixture of sulphur, coal dust and foul fumes from the oil lamp above, I was near dead of asphyxiation and heat.’
I’d like to think our Albert was setting off for a night on the beer and, as the pub which stood above the tunnel’s rocky bluff was long gone, he would have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the 14.35pm from Sheffield Victoria to Manchester.
The steam train would probably have huffed and puffed for at least 45 minutes to arrive and, if our friend was setting off for a drink he had to make his mind up pretty fast.
He could alight at Crowden Station, but the Commericial Inn at Crowden had already been demolished, as had the Angel at Nine Holes Bridge.
The Temperance watering hold on the Holme Firth road would not have been much good to him and neither would the Quiet Shepherd at Torside, as that was even quieter than normal as it had ceased trading.
In a curious twist of fate, during my early days at Bleak House, Crowden, the building was occupied by a Austin Hawksworth, who himself was a very quiet shepherd and a lovely man who played the organ at St James on a Sunday.
My bet is that Albert was on his way to the George & Dragon.
A fine old hostelry on the shore of Woodhead Reservoir opposite the turn-off for the A6024 which was run by the Bagshaw’s.
Unfortunately for the likes of myself and Albert, the George & Dragon was also demolished by Manchester Corporation.
I can see Albert chewing the fat at the end of the bar, telling a stranger how diamond shaped glass panes could still be seen in the cellar from the 17th century.
I can hear the plinkyplonk of the old pianola being cranked up in the corner.
Halcyon days.