The People You Meet...
Peel Tower, Ramsbottom, Lancashire U.K.
The road is more of a worn remnant track. The climb a steady haul up from the town centre where the steam trains drag tourists in from Manchester for a day in the foothills of the Pennines. It was our first visit to this place and we had been encouraged to take the challenge and walk to the tower. The brochure at the library said the tower was built to remember a local boy made good. If you call twice becoming a Victorian-age prime minister a good thing. It helps to have come from the right family stock. The day was typically overcast and the view limited but occasionally rewarded us with steam trails striping the valley as the trains whistled their entry into and puffed their way out of tunnels.
We passed him mid way way up, his rain soaked dog ignored as it faithfully carried a much chewed stick. The man’s drab face was down cast, absorbed in a depth of consciousness unfathomable to us. I’d guess he was in his mid thirties, a physique reflecting past athleticism well wrapped against the November bleakness. He blankly passed by us ignoring my nodded greeting and her hellos. Our cheery enquiry to the dog as to its enjoyment of the stick was ignored by both man and beast as they stoically trudged on their way. We glanced at each other in mute affront. We were used to the open Yorkshire ways of walkers and this Lancastrian snub was unexpected. Why would you choose to walk these scenic paths and ignore the vista, not be involved in the stimulation of the climb or acknowledge the happy banter of the people you passed en route?
Our target was the landmark tower, and we proceeded on our way, unused to the exertion we unwittingly restricted our conversation and I began to wonder as to the man’s demeanour. A glumness had surrounded his plodding gate, there seemed no expectation from his hound that the master would respond, the stick was carried in habit rather than anticipation. And that man’s numb slog from the tower, his head held down , a mind otherwise absorbed. I suspected a depression within.
Peel Tower had fallen to decrepitude, three times in fact, since its prolific and feted construction. Its roof and stairway has rotted and been replaced twice by wealthy politicised patrons and once by 20th century community obligation. Modern times sees it again a falling, neglected, a future ruin sealed from access lest perchance people throw themselves from its mighty height. It now stands as a crumbling unintentional phallic reminder of its historic past.
The climb was arduous but we managed the higher crest and absorbed the vista around all compass points in a respectful silence, occasionally pointing to features as the clouds revealed further expanses.
Again he walked by us.
Again he ignored our politeness.
Again the bedraggled mutt snubbed our entreaty for affection.
Again his head down and oblivious, emotionally dumb and paying no attention to his surrounds. It was well, I thought, the tower was sealed. My heart felt for the loyalty of the hound, committed to endlessly trail a thankless leader.
The Shoulder of Mutton pub was so named from an ancient trial where a mighty greased pole was set up to be scaled, the victor obtaining a joint of meat skewered at its summit. So said the menu sheet from which we selected our luncheon while sipping our well earned libations. It was here we saw him again, his dog, sans stick, lay at his foot beneath his table. The man remained downcast, head dipped, involved in a secret depth. We avoided making another greeting comment, and lowered our cheery banter. His mood pervaded our sense of accomplishment and I made to move from our choice of table. It was then she prodded me and directed me to look towards him. He had lifted his gaze and was reaching down to his pet, tousling the beast’s ears and smiling in the gormless way of a besotted master into his charge's face. A smart phone screen slowly faded to black on the table next to him as his other hand removed earphones, the thump of a contented tail beat a tattoo on the old oak floor.
