Distington v Queens
The last weekend of January is the opening weekend of rugby league season with the challenge cup first round, involving clubs from the amateur leagues.
It is always a tradition to go to a tie, and this year was no different. In addition, my 18 month sojourn of being off the beer, comes to an end in mid-February, so joining me to today was erstwhile drinking partner Mike, so I could re-familiarise myself with incorporating visits to guide pubs into the day, without actually drinking.
The start was the 0741 York off of Sowerby, with the guide listed Jubilee Refreshment Rooms in the background.
Into Leeds, and with it being a through service, it was a east end stopping point, showing off the bizarre artwork that has appeared on the tower block in the background, which looks like a GCSE version of the Twilight saga.
It was back to the other end of the station and the Aire Valley bays where a terminating Ribblehead starter was forming my Carlisle service back.
During the winter the train is only formed of two cars vice four during the summer, and was busy with pensioner walking groups, moaning about almost everything that they had done, seen or heard during the week. Mike joined at Shipley and we headed up the Settle and Carlisle, with most of the aged complainants having alighted by the time we encountered the punning station benches at Settle.
Crossing Ribblehead, which was perhaps not at its most scenic.
Three hours later it was into Carlisle.
These being the south facing, east bays, with the Pacer having headed off for a bounce across the Tyne Valley to Newcastle, and our unit soon spinning for a run back to Leeds.
First stop was the new bar on the London bound platform. It's erroneously named 301 miles bar after the supposed miles from London, even though it's only 299 miles and the mile posts restart at Preston anyway. But the pub itself is decent, being in a slightly odd building which was the refreshment rooms in the 1950s. Anyone in the north will take one look at it and think the same thing; I bet that's a fucker to heat.
Mike took in an OC - Rail Ale, whilst I was on the diet Irn Bru.
Our next move was down the Cumbrian Coast, which co-incided with a loco hauled working. To re-cap, these were brought in to increase the number of services to Sellafied, but due to there being no surplus units, instead loco and coaches were used. However, these are fucked old 1960s locos that keep breaking down and due to the amount of single line on the route, create havoc for all the other trains. This means they are being replaced with new class 68 locos, with one of the two circuits due to transfer over in the next week or so.
However, the class 37s have a big following, so the train was pretty solid with cranks. Here is the leading coach, with the Growler Group doing a passable re-creation of one of the away day scenes in ID, but with more man-made fibres despite there being no shell suits present today.
The Syphon Youth Firm had 'taken' the prime front coach, first table, closest to the loco thrash. They then proceeded to have a group game of TrainSim on a particularly crusty looking laptop. But what were they driving? Only a class 159 DMU!!!! Liberty takers.
We were given odd looks for alighting after a couple of stops at Maryport. The great unwashed all carrying on to Lancaster. 300 men, with a combined sexual partner total of 3.
Maryport has a proud history based on it being built by a slave trader to bring in his plundered West Indian bounty. Still, at least he named it after his wife, neighbouring Whitehaven being very dubious considering its similar roots. Anyway, unsurprisingly it was biting cold and drizzling, but we were only there to tick off the guide pub.
For some reason, the Golden Lion hotel wasn't full with tourists and day trippers.
Which was just as well as they only had one stick on, with Mike having a rather underwhelming Loweswater - Gold, and me having a diet coke from local micro brewer Coca-Cola.
We were tempted by some of the very thrift wise options available.
But instead it was the Stagecoach Cumbria, 31 bus heading for Whitehaven West Cumberland Hospital via the scenic sights of post industrial Allerdale.
We headed down the coastal road through Flimby, where quite magically, we manged to get sea spray attacking both sides of the bus, despite being fifty feet inland.
Having had the opportunity to pose the question, why is New Balance's UK headquarters in Siddick, we passed Borough Park, home of former football league side Workington, with any alterations to the ground since they lost association status being undertaken by inshore gales.
Mike glimpses across at neighbouring ground Derwent Park, home of Workington Town Rugby League. The reason, for his wistfull look is due to...
...it being home to the Gus Rismond Suite where we watched Germany beat England in the 2010 World Cup having travelled up to see South Wales Scorpions get narrowly defeated in their debut season in the rugby league championship.
Into Workington itself and we were interested to see that the local FA was a cosy neighbour with a thinly disguised knocking shop.
After a winding tour through the sun kissed fringes of Schoose, Salterbeck, and High Harrington, were were deposited at our destination for the first part of the afternoon; Distington.
Cup fever was rife in the town as the local shop proudly advertised today's game. I got the chance to read the poster about thirty times as seemingly everyone in Copeland queued to buy forty quids worth of entries for the evenings lottery. It's as though they live in hope of escaping the balmy surroundings of Cumbria in January?
Distington was a farming area until the 17th century, when sand and limestone quarrying started. Attention then turned to coal mining with numerous small pits being replaced by the deep mine Oatlands Pit, in 1880. However, this had closed by the 1930s leaving only the other major industry an iron works, which had opened in 1879. This developed into an alloy aviation parts supplier, but closed in 2007 with production transferred to France. Never mind, I'm sure Brexit will see the 200 jobs brought back ten fold.
God knows what the people who live here do for a living now, but we got to wander down a muddy track to the fringes of a council estate.
Then got to wander through a council estate.
Until we spied our hosts for the afternoon.
The first step on the road to Wembley.
The social club sits outside the ground, and is owned by the Community Amateur Sports Club, so it was further inside, to the rugby club itself.
Distington 32 v Queens 24, Ladbrokes Rugby League Challenge Cup - 1st Round
There have been rugby league sides in Distington since the 1950s, with the current club formed in the 1980s. They regrouped in 2005 and have gone on to become a major force in Cumbrian rugby, winning both the county league and cup twice. This is their second season in the challenge cup, and state that over 60% of their team are from the village. They are one of the few clubs who's badge includes a naked elderly man in chains, looking very pleased with himself.
Queens are from Leeds, and play in the Pennine League, which is still a winter competition. They are based in the Headingley area. It's fair to say they have had a bit of unwelcome notoriety in the past, with hardly glowing reviews about hospitality, and receiving a three year ban from the challenge cup in 2009 after their game against Doncaster at the Keepmoat was abandoned due to a huge rucus in the crowd. Having said that, I've seen them a few times in local games and they have always seemed a pretty normal outfit.
Distington moved to their ground in the 1980s, it previously being a mixture of wasteland and scrub on the edge of the village.
The visitors had seemingly arrived late and were still warming up way after kick off time.
However, eventually we got underway.
The ground is in a very exposed setting, with the wind rolling in off the Irish sea. Most spectators were huddled around the changing rooms but a hardy few had made it across to the far touchline.
The Distington Youth Firm were positioned for action behind the near goal. Queens had obviously decided that whilst they fancied their chances against Doncaster's finest, this was an 'off' to far, and had stayed at home.
The visitor's took an early lead, and I got to find out what 'lucky fucking wanker' sounds like when it is sqwarked by a nine year old West Cumbrian.
The Queen's players celebrated wildly.
The kick was from about fifteen feet out but the ferocious wind meant the little dink of the kick was last seen heading over Cockermouth.
The game carried on in a similar vein, ie it was freezing cold and Queens had all the play.
They scored a couple more try's.
The youth firm had now also got some action, an errant youngster from Kells being picked off one on one.
Another try and conversion for Queens.
However, the game had been a bit niggly, whether or not this had been a deliberate tactic by the home side I don't know, but mid way through the half it all kicked off when a Distington player flopped on the Queen's scrum half, with tackle complete already called.
The Queen's player reacted with a couple of decent punches and all hell let loose.
The aftermath was the Queens player getting a straight red and the Distington player sin binned.
The wind was still playing a part, with the exposed posts being a nice shade of rusty orange/brown.
Whilst this touch marker first of all lost its flag early on, but then remained bent at 30 degree angle for the rest of the game.
With their player back on, the home side made their advantage count and finally got on the score sheet.
The pitch was absolutely sodden, with accompanying water features around the ground.
In some sort of Wizard of Oz recreation, this children's see-saw blew past midway through the half.
The locals were hardy to the elements, sporting an excellent mix of Regatta outdoor wear, a 1980s Nike wind cheater, and the current haute couture A/S collection in Copeland; the Aspatria Farmers hooded top.
A large and lively and generally good natured home contingent took refuge around the facilities block.
A fairly one sided first half ended 8-18.
However, there was a remarkable change of fortunes in the second half, as the home side took advantage of having the extra man and the hurricane force winds behind them, to run in a series of scores.
They started the half with three unopposed tries to take the lead.
Queens got one back to retain the lead.
But the latter stages saw the home side get a couple more scores in the fading light.
And so a rather surprising 34 - 22 turn around was complete, and the home side progressed to the next round.
There was temptation to stay on for this, until we worked out we'd be waiting for another seven weeks.
So it was instead back to the bus stop, where we were somewhat taken by surprise by it arriving, and departing about eight minutes early.
We were dropped off outside the splenour of the Whitehaven Wetherspoon's.
Despite having a fresh batch of CAMRA 50p a pint discount vouchers, the temptation was resisted as it was over the road to the station.
Where the eventual appearance of a DBSO between the bay platform semaphores signalled the impending arrival of our next move.
This was the other loco hauled set, which dropped south through the tunnel to Corckickle. This is home to Whitehaven rugby league ground, adjacent to which is the Atcost heaven of Whitehaven Amateurs, which was to be our second game of the day but we had foresaken for the entirety of the rugby. However, we seemed to have made the right choice as there was a distinct lack of activity at the football ground.
This stretch of line hugs the coast line, and the sea looked absolutely fucking freezing.
However, we were not heading for home quite yet, dispensing with English Electric traction at Ravenglass.
As the train headed off, we searched for an exit, whilst the locals just jumped off the platform and trudged across the track.
Our official route took us through the adjacent home of the Ravenglass and Eskdale miniature steam railway.
This was a former quarry railway and therefore takes tourists about ten miles up to, well a former quarry. In the middle of no where. With no facilities except an ice cream van. If you are a fan of seeing underwhelmed Lancastrians, inappropriately dressed and reluctantly consuming choc ices, you could do worse than taking a trip on the line.
Instead we headed into the village itself. It sits aside the wide estuary where the rivers Esk and Irt meet, which was sheltered from the battering the coast was taken and therefore quite tranquil in the early sun set.
Ravenglas had about five houses, but three pubs. The one at the station is normally in the guide, but the status has transferred to the Village Inn where Mike had a Hawkshead - Bitter, whilst I had three packets of pickled onion crisps, somewhat shattering the illuion that sobriety brings with it a balanced diet.
Leaving the pub and the cloud had finally made an attempt to lift so Mike took some dull pictures to try and convince his other half that he had been having a very culturally expansive day and not just cranking locos, watching rugby and scratching off guide pubs in Cumbrian backwaters.
We headed back to the station where Mike got into his DfT day job mode as he noticed the sign was still sporting the old Northern logo.
I did my bit for inter TOC solidarity by not bringing to his attention the sticker on the adjacent sign.
We both chose to ignore that the next sign had rusted through and that the extensive remedial repairs had amounted to tieing some string to it and hanging it from a bridge, but the string had now perished.
With the sun now having almost set, but the rain clouds having also largely dispersed, our train arrived, this being a rather more mundane class 156.
Which was a through service to Preston, so took us down through Barrow and then across to to the West Coast main line at Carnforth, where we alighted, under the famous 'Brief Encounters' clock.
We had intended to visit the excellent snug micro-pub on the station. However it was shut in February as the station buildings were being renovated. So instead it was into the town for Mike to have a Farm Yard - Sheaf Pale, and to watch plucky provincial underdogs Tottenham Hotspur take on the financial clout of the mighty Newport County, and come out of it with a creditable draw. It was then back to the station for a different route home than normal, being a jaunt along the "Little" North Western Railway which heads across to Leeds via Skipton. Our train had originated in Morecambe, and hosted a contingent of Mansfield fans returning from an injury time win there, using a route which I have to say, wouldn't be obvious to me.
Traction was one of the ten strong fleet of three car Pacers, the somewhat more comfortable class 153 lashed on the back being DIT. Byu the time we alighted at Shipley, the front coach had joined the 153 in having its engines cut out. This necessitated an additional emergency headlight as the train borne one was relying on cross feed from the remaining two vehicles with engines working.
I parted company with Mike, as he headed northwards upto Ilkley. His place was taken by a random stranger clutching a slab of Budweiser, which he had made serious inroads into. He then proceeded to give me some quite striking detail of how he delivered crack between Morecambe and Keighley, until he got arrested and sent to prison. Of more surprise was that that the operation seemed to be organised by a local solicitors.
My new friend was also changing onto the Bradford train and he continued his autobiography with how, on release from prison, he had (somehow) got a job in Taunton, delivering fridges. This saw him paired up with 'either fucking illerate Poles or a grumpy cunt called Alan'. The journey between Frizinghall was consumed by a well thought out comparison of the virtues of being accompanied by an east European man mountain who can single handedly lift any appliance, but can't read a map; or someone who can give accurate directions, forge petrol receipts and split the proceeds, but won't ever get out of the van to move anything. Anyway, the answer was a third option of using the delivery round to pick up crack from Cornwall, and to then decide that if you are back to drug running, you might as well do it where you know people, so here he was. As we parted ways across town at Interchange, I'm still not sure whether he was trying to impress me, recruit me, sell to me or just had pride in his job and liked to tell strangers about it. Who'd have thought the UK provincial rail network would be inhabited by such people at ten o'clock on a Saturday night?
Waiting for me in the platforms at interchange was a York-Preston service.
Which rushed me through to Sowerby, for an ever interesting dry, dry run. Role on three weeks time and the real thing.
No comments:
Post a Comment