Down in the valley at the entrance to Shipley from these parts sits a neglected and sadly abandoned building, the Carnegie Library.
Like an ageing model, down on her luck, her best years behind her, she sits awaiting a fate she has no control over.
The picture comes from a local blog Salt & Light and paints the old building in a far more sympathetic light as these days it sprouts all manner of weeds and foilage from it’s woefully neglected facade.
There were recent plans to save the building – making way for a new Morrisons supermarket – by ambitiously demolishing and rebuilding brick by brick. Sadly, these plans appear to have been abandoned too.
The building holds special memories for me as it served as the home for our annual cricket club dinner dance, celebrating – or otherwise – the achievements of the season with an attendance often pushing a hundred.
Perhaps in those days we had nowhere else to go?
Dress was formal and we youngsters were expected to don a shirt and tie plus eat with real cutlery; we never knew there were so many different knives, forks and spoons.
Of course we also saw this as an opportunity to slide a few drinks under the table to help muster the courage to have one last pop at the local girls, who had dismissed us with aplomb all summer long.
If only we had learned to dance.
The night would be a mix of pop music and classical dancing although this did not matter as most of us were shit at both and, having struggled to master an off-drive all summer, the chances of nailing a Viennese waltz were remote to say the least.
The DJ would spin his ’45s in the corner and we would gather like wild hyenas on the edge of the dancefloor, circling our prey, as protective mothers spun a cordon around vulnerable daughters like giant wildebeest.
If they did not trample us to death the scents of the era – Avon and Faberge – would nail us quicker than Chemical Ali. We were not worthy and we knew that an Under 14 Batting prize was no ticket to ride.
One year my friend Jane decided I should rebel and go “casual” casting aside my Holy Communion tie and best school pants, early enough in the new school year to avoid any holes yet.
I was far too young and impressionable to realise yet that Jane was never going to dress the elite as she guided me to Bradford’s C&A creating a look that could only have been described as Mick Jagger Does Pink.
It was no surprise to learn years later that the Dutch based C&A abandoned these shores presumably finding it easier to sell their clothes back home aided and abetted by hallucinatory drugs and lots of rich Germans with dodgy hair styles.
I turned up looking like something from the kids show Rainbow to looks of horror and promptly got pissed on Skol lager. Had I puked all over my multi-coloured top the bonus would have been it would have been impossible to detect.
Jane ended up with the offending trousers soon after and the fact that they fit her better than me was damming enough.
The building had a wonderful sense of theatre. Of course, we cannot save every old building that ends up unwanted and in the wrong place but simply allowing this to stand and rot is so sad when you see the crap they build these days.
If no future use is possible then it simply needs taking down and putting out of it’s misery because, in it’s current and ever worsening state, it is tragic beyond words.
Christine says
Had my wedding reception there in 1973. It’s sad to see it in this state.