Fairy Glen, Appley Bridge and Fairy Stories

I moved into the area about 15 years ago and then six years ago moved into the Wrightington area. It was then that I first heard about Fairy Glen.

It is a footpath that starts somewhere between the top of Parbold Hill and The Dicconson Arms and ends up in the back of the fields of Appley Bridge. Anyway, it is a lovely footpath which cuts its way through trees and woodlands.

People talked about how 'lovely it is', 'how magical it is' and 'how unspoilt it is'. So one day I found myself wandering down there. And fair enough, it was lovely.

As you enter the Glen, you will see a large, colourful, illustrated, hand painted sign announcing 'Welcome To Fairy Glen'. You'll also see plenty of bluebells, or ferns or screaming schoolkids, depending on the day or time of the year you go.

But, one thing I guarantee you will not see, is Fairies.
It is just a name. A nice name. A lovely name. But it is a lie. There are no fairies. Ever.

Forget the kids, they will grow up soon enough.

If we, as adults, accept this sign and don't question it, then I guess it is OK to accept the other sign that is only a mile down the road towards the motorway.

It announces 'Welcome To Lancashire -- A Place Where Everyone Matters.'

It is a lovely idea isn't it? To think that we are all equal and that we collectively matter?

If that is the case, then why do people have to wait months to see a Doctor?
Why are people still waiting up to a year to see a specialist?
Why are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters dieing because they cannot afford the best drugs?
Why are hundreds of local health workers being sacked?
Why is our rainwater sold back to us by a private company, (who make vast profits)?
Why is it that the vast majority of the public do not have the rights to walk over the vast open countryside of Lancashire?
Why is it that the vegetable fields are full of exploited East Europeans working for a pittance?
Why is it that drugs are illegal in this country, yet I can by drugs in virtually every single pub I go in?
etc, etc, etc,....

Maybe because we are asleep.
Numbed into not questioning what is going on right under our nose.

Even though fairies are a lovely idea, there are none.
Even though equality and respect are lovely ideas.
We are not equal and our rights are not respected. Just look around you.

If you want to get a more accurate measure of your county councillors, then read the signs as you enter rural Lancashire from Yorkshire. The signs read 'Welcome to Lancashire- The County Palatine'.

Now, I didn't know what Palatine meant, so I looked it up in the dictionary. It said, ...Palatine... endowed with Royal Priveliges.

So there you have it. That is what is really important. Privelige and Royalty.
Just about a million miles away from the cramped and dirty housing of Wigan, Preston or Burnley.
From the estates of poor quality housing of Skelmersdale or Blackburn.
From the caravans of Polish agricultural workers in Rufford.
And on and on and on....

There are no Fairies.
Just stupid Fairy Stories.

And if the fairy stories are just not enough for you, if your pain becomes too much, you could always rise up and fight the system.... or maybe it is easier to buy drugs which are available in virtually every single pub, school, and workplace.

Now, who would have thought of that?

Wake Up.

Beach Life Salon, Appley Bridge

Beach Life Salon. This is one of those places where lovely ladies, make themselves look even more lovely, by having their nails filed, painted and polished by even more lovelier ladies. I realise this could be a sexist opinion, written from a particular male point of view..... but, if there were only women in the world, would women still bother to look so pretty?
I doubt it. I am just glad they do.......

Anyway, I was just mentioning the place because I go in there from time to time to use the sunbed, (I know, I know .... vanity... skin cancer .... I should know better.... but I don't). Whenever I go in there, the staff do something which is really unusual, especially where young girls and middle-aged men are concerned. The girls look up and almost without exception..... they smile.

Seriously.
Pretty young girls doing something as extremely 'uncool' as smiling. It makes my day. It really does. For a fleeting moment I think...... is there a chance....? what if I pull my stomach in a bit...? Maybe I shouldn't wear slip-ons? Maybe I should dig out my Brut and 'splash it all over'.....?

I pay my £3, or whatever it is, and try and keep my composure as I attempt to saunter in the direction of the sunbeds.... (at this point, the price of the sunbed session could have cost £30.... I really wouldn't notice.... or care...).

I strip off knowingly, acutely aware of the hareem of minimalistic-black-clad beauties busying themselves only a few short, almost non-existant, feet away.

I glimpse at my body in the mirror.... and thank god there is a lock on the door.

I put the token in the slot.... 30 seconds till take-off.
I pull the headphones out the socket... I don't want music to take me away from here... to distract me. I want to enjoy... relish... taste... each second of ... our partial intimacy.

For surely that is what it is?
They know I am naked. They know I am trying to make my body more attractive to the opposite sex....
There it is. That word. This is surely our partial intimacy....
10 seconds to go.

I crawl in the coffin-cold box, rest the tiny eye shades on the bridge of my nose and pull the lid down. My body is freezing, my buttocks are clenched and I momentarily feel like it was all a bad idea. Then I hear, feel and see a flicker, flicker, flicker...
Lift off.

What do I think about, for the 6 or 9 minutes in which I lie and fry...?
Well, actually, having read my introduction, not what you would think.
The girls, (ladies actually), quickly fade way. The world too, quickly fades away. And I am left with my thoughts.

So many thoughts.
Ideas half-done, projects half-baked, people half-loved...
A life half-lived.

The warm sunshine soothes me... the fans brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr lulls and laps my seashore... somewhere down the beach I hear giggling... I am not alone. I belong here.

Then blackness. Instant blackness and fast-encroaching cold. My £3 is over.
I rush to dress.
I smell differently.
Is it me?
Or do sunbeds bring something out of you...?

Verdes Restaurant in Eccleston

It's only when I start to read what I have written, that I realise my ramblings are a little one pointed, in that I only seem to write about things I notice when I am out and about.

But what else can I do? I mean, 'The cats not been looking to well, least not for the last few days...', or 'The neighbors are looking as miserable as ever......' or 'I am so disappointed with my new surround sound system....'.

See, it's not the same is it? You really couldn't be expected to give a damn about my cat, my neighbours or my new surround sound system. So I am only left to talk about things around Wrightington that you too may know or have experienced. Only then can you rise from your life of possible semi-stupor, (for that is what could possibly be indicated if you are reading this), and say 'Yes, I strongly agree with this fine fellow' or 'What a load of bollocks'.

So, it is with a growing sense of shame that I stick to the subject of eating out. It's hardly surprising really. I mean, I do eat out rather a lot. Usually once a day, sometimes twice. I used to adore cooking. I lost myself in french cuisine, oriental flaring stir-frys, meticulous central european 'peasant' recipes... then I got a life. I just haven't got the interest anymore. Somewhere, between a hastily reheated lasagne and a particularly unmemorable Lobster Bisque, the chef in me just.... died.

So now I go out to eat. I expect good food. After all, it's not a lot to ask. It's not as if cooking food is difficult. I expect good service. After all, giving someone what they want, with a vague look of a smile on your kisser, in exchange for money, is a simple task. Least it should be.

When I want a totally predictable plate of good food, with excellent service, I go to Verdes Italian Restaurant in Eccleston. It is a veritable oasis of happiness and good cooking.

For a start, all the staff smile, even when they are run off their feet. The Manager, I think his name is Gabrielle, is a true professional. He treats everybody, young and old, alike. He is warm and friendly. His chef is a good cook. And what else is there to say? Nothing. Good food. Good staff. No wonder the place is always busy.

Toogood Farm Shop, Wrightington

What's on the telly lately?
I'll tell you.
Three hundred programmes about lemming-like couples wanting to buy a 'property' abroad.
Four hundred programmes telling stick-in-the-mud Brits how to 'stay put' and make a fortune by renovating neglected property.
And seven hundred programmes telling you that unless you eat a load more vegetables, approximately 400 portions a day, you will die a painful and slow death.

It was after watching that Dr Gillian McKeith, publicly dissecting some poor chaps Number Two's, that I thought I had better improve my diet. (Imagine.... how did she become an 'expert' on Number Twos......? And you thought you had a bad job.....)

Enough of that.

I went to Tescos in Chorley and looked at their vegetables. And it wasn't right.
It just wasn't right.
Six perfectly round apples, nestled on a tray of expanded polystyrene foam, clad in a bag of clear plastic film, which trapped the 'special inert atmospheric gas', which kept the chemical-laden, dissinfected fruit.... fresh. Fresh?
I thought it was supposed to be healthy for me....?

I was uneasy.
If I was going to take responsibilty for what I eat, it wasn't going to be straightforward.
I know enough about chemistry to know that If I was going to buy the apples, I was about to enter a lucky dip. The apples might be OK. Or they might not.

I needed an alternative. I looked over to the 'organic' fruit and veg counter. That too looked like it had been packed for a space mission. It looked expensive too. I needed another alternative.

I rummaged through my memories, looking under 'Dirty fruit' and 'Soily spuds', 'Mutant carrots', and then 'Farm shops'. Eureka! Toogood Farm Shop was right under my nose!

Don't let anybody tell you that you can't get good fruit and veg any more- because you can.
You can actually tell that the people run this farm shop actually care about what they sell. They sell all the basic fruit veg and and they also sell some of the more exotic stuff too.

Mind you, it pays to know what you are buying. Last week I bought a 'thing'. Actually, it was a 'green thing'. That's all I can tell you. I got it home and couldn't figure it out. So I had a bit of it in a salad. Suffice to say, I think it should have been cooked. It was like top grade, green concrete. Certainly Dr Gillian McKeith would have found it in my Number...
No..., let's not go there.

Most of the stuff they sell in Toogood farm shop is really good. The staff are friendly and helpful, especially Rowena.

So, after weeks of munching on all kinds of fruit and veg, after weeks of 'cleansing' my dear old colon, I have not noticed any improvement in my health. But I have met some nice people, which is always a bonus.

I enjoy eating good food, and should the door ever burst open whilst I am sat on the 'throne', I can remain seated with a smug self confidence, sure in the knowledge that my Number Twos are...... au naturelle.

Bring it on, Dr McKeith!

BP Garage at Wrightington

A lot of garages are sorry places nowadays. I don't know why.
Maybe the staff are sick of people moaning about the price of fuel?
Maybe the staff are sick of selling one thousand other products as well as fuel?
Or maybe they are all working too long hours and are just knackered?

But, the BP garage at Wrightington is a pleasant change.
All the staff, (and there must be at least eight or nine of them), are really pleasant.
They smile... even when they are obviously tired.
They laugh, which makes me laugh.
They ask me how I am.
Now, that is special.
Not even my nearest and dearest asks me how I am!

Thank you.

The Dickinson Arms, Dangerous Corner

Just a quick observation.
Do you remember that scene in that old Star Wars movie? The one where the hero walks into a bar on some far-off planet, and it is full of strange looking creatures? I think George Lucas, the Director, won an oscar for that scene alone.

Well, I know where he got his inspiration from.

Go to The Dickinson Arms on a friday night.

Seriously.

Moss Lane, Wrightington

Today was bitterly cold. The temperature gauge in the car read -4'C this morning. With a slight wind blowing, I was freezing. The car was coated with a slight dusting of snow, although the t.v. informs me that half the country is covered in ankle deep snow.

I love the snow. In fact I am that rare breed of person that likes all weather. Rain, hail, wind, snow, I am not bothered, I love it.

For some reason, the windscreen on my car had no ice on it whatsoever. I just started the car, clenched my freezing buttocks, momentarily imagined my hands freezing to the steering wheel, then took of on my travels.

One of the perks of driving through Wrightington in winter, is seeing other motorists, usually commuters driving much too fast, climbing out of the gap in the hedge, leaving their fine vehicles stranded in the field.

One would have thought, that the total absence of salt on all the B roads through Wrightington, would indicate that the roads are slippy and dangerous. Indeed, the presence of sheets of ice and holes in the hedges from previous accidents, would also cast doubt on the wisdom of racing to work via the winding country roads of Wrightington. Alas, I thought wrong.

This morning I was driving along at a stately, yet safe 15 mph. Then I caught site of a black sporty BMW in my rear view mirror. It appeared to be coming at me from behind at about 60 mph. My buttocks, which had only just begun to relax and relish the heated seat, immediately reclenched, preparing for the worst.

At the very last split-second before rear impact, the 'racing' car, which I can confirm was a BMW, pulled out in from behind me and overtook. With my buttocks clenched into a solid ring, and my hands, arms and shoulders welded to the steering wheel, I glanced sideways as the black menace seered by.

What I saw baffled me. He was obviously human, of that there is no doubt. He was a young man, around 20 years old, well groomed, but... But how can I describe his expression?

His childish look of anger and distaste, indicated that at some recent point in the past, I personally had defacated in his mouth, whilst simultaneously proving beyond reasonable doubt, that his mother had never loved him. If indeed, she ever was his mother.

A variety of thoughts all appeared to happen at once. I thought,
'He is going to fast'.
'How the hell can he afford to drive that car?'.
'Lucky bastard'.
'What the hell is he looking at?'.
'Mummies boy'.
'He's going to kill himself, driving like that'.
That last thought broke my indignancy. It was then that I realised, that I was indeed about to witness an accident.

About 300 yards ahead was a bend that is always covered in ice in winter. I just took my foot of the accelerator and watched.

I saw him driving at about 60.
I saw him, no, I felt him 'see' the ice.
I saw the brake lights come on.
I saw a brief, almost flirtish waggle of back end BMW.
Then I saw his beautiful car disappear through the hedge.

I couldn't help it. I knew I shouldn't. But I smiled. Just briefly. But enough to vindicate myself, my driving. With justice arrogantly coursing my veins, I uttered 'You stupid bastard'.

My car, my co-accused, my vindicated partner, together we idled towards the hole in the hedge.
We saw Mummies Boy get out of the car, (it was probably hers).
We saw he was OK, just shaken. He had a smart blue shirt on and a 'Aren't I a big guy now?' red tie.

Even though I was still travelling at 15 mph, even though he was now 50 yards away, I could still make out his frozen nipples, prodding, like little fingers against his fancy shirt. I hadn't finished with him yet. Once more, with shear, smug, warm-arsed pleasure, I uttered 'You stupid bastard'.

I could see him on his mobile. The cocky, boy racer was now in trouble. His toothy snarl no longer present. His spitty venom left in the soil-sprinkled BMW. He was worried. He was upset.
No. He was more than upset. He was devastated.

His world, his new found dream, his adventure into manhood had been pulled from under him.
And now he just wanted his mum. Or his dad. It didn't really matter which.
He just wanted to be loved.

As my plodding car glided past the newly-made opening in the hedge, our eyes met. I raised my arm instinctively, waving, enquiring, caring, offering... In a timeless glimpse, we became friends. He ushered me on my way, silently thanking me. He was going to be OK.

He just wanted to be loved.
And I guess we all know what that's like.

Junction 27 of M6 Motorway, Wrightington

I had to go to Liverpool this morning, so I decided to take the M6 down to the M58.
Just as I was driving round the roundabout, to join the motorway, I glimpsed down onto the road below. I saw three lanes of solid, stationary, southbound traffic.

Fortunately I had time to carry on round the roundabout and head back over Parbold Hill to join the M58 at Skelmersdale. I heard on the radio later that road works were the problem. If I hadn't looked over the rail I could have been stuck for hours...

That's the problem with motorways. We rely on them, at least I do. I plan my journies assuming the motorway will be clear. But it appears more and more I just can't do it, not if I want to get anywhere on time.

The M6 passes through the eastern edge of Wrightington. But it isn't like a forgotten landmark that exists somewhere on the periphery. The M6 is the lifeblood for Wrightington.
Virtually every adult in Wrightington can drive. They have to because there are no 'services' in walking distance. No Doctor, no Dentist, no supermarket, no optician, no ..... etc.
Every adult must drive or be at the mercy of their family or friends.

The M6 allows wealthy people from far away to live in the quiet seclusion of Wrightington, yet travel to work or go shopping in Manchester, Liverpool, Chester or Preston, or hundreds of other towns that are within an hours drive of Wrightington. The M6 allows the people of Wrightington to breeze up and down the country.

But it can't last.

Over the last ten years, I have seen the M6 become so congested, that arriving at work on time can no longer be guaranteed. And if you can't get to work on time, you won't get paid. And if you don't get paid, you wont be able to afford to live in Wrightington. So something will have to be done.

Already, city and town centres all over the North West are bursting with new apartments, that are designed for 'easy living'.

I think that translates to 'avoiding the M6'.

Harrock Hill, Wrightington

Today is Tuesday 28th February 2006. It is just past midnight.
If I don't do this now, I never will.
I promised myself I would start this blog in February, so I guess I have succeeded in achieving a minor goal.

Earlier today, Monday, was a beautiful, crisp, promise-of-spring kind of day.
I like to walk sometimes... and today I walked.
I ended up going over Harrock Hill, across the fields to the old windmill.
The ground was hard, barely above freezing.

I didn't see too much wildlife today, it must have been hiding. Just as well really.
The usual monday crowd were out.
Chaps in cheap coats, waving sticks, beating frozen dead ferns, chasing pheasants and partridge towards chaps in expensive coats and even more expensive guns.

I said 'Hello' to the nearest beater. He looked up briefly but said nothing, he lowered his head into his coat and I wandered on.
I guess he didn't hear me.
Least, I hope he didn't.