In these troubled times we must all look out for our most vulnerable; isolation can be a bad thing, especially with local community centres shut.
With this in mind we decided we had to stick with tradition and the Christmas walk would take place; we would prise Big Al from his long-suffering armchair before the DFS sale.
It had been a while since our last walk which had ended badly with him being abandoned somewhere North of Skipton, praying for a recovery of sorts or an early beer with his maker. At least we knew where to find the body.
The distance of our next challenge was duly tailored, a modest six or seven mile stroll around the ever-changing Esholt Estate.
“A trip around a shitworks?” he questioned rather ungratefully the night before, as we discussed the route like a long-planned escape tunnel on our weekly Zoom call. I doubted Julia Bradbury received such cynicism.
We were all excited at the prospect of some bonhomie and fresh air, so much so our Zoom call was curtailed, hot water bottles filled and wives left confused as we sought an early night.
A White Christmas
Morning came with the first dusting of snow, more dandruff than Eskimo, but enough to discard the shorts and seek the sensible option. Bravely, Posh Pete of Addingham had chanced the viral valleys of his old home town and joined Five Pints, Uncle Andy and myself.
Uncle Andy announced it was thirty-three years to the day that he had joined the Fire Service; how he missed those days of morning television, coffee, cake and early afternoon naps.
We met at the church gates and soon caught sight of Big Al wobbling down the hill with his stick, shorts still unwashed since the last walk. It was good to be out.
We took the route down through the farm fields just beyond the gorgeous Plumpton cottages with a beautiful view across the valley. On into the Esholt Estate, soon the moaning we all knew and loved had begun.
“Where can I get a taxi?”
Keen on the need to keep us together, we managed to get him into the woods again and the options of a taxi reduced to that of an airborne one.
Where’s Amos?
We were past halfway by now and accustomed to the moaning and groaning a few yards back in the distance. Sadly, the promised refreshment stop at the famous Woolpack had not materialised.
In the distance was the promise of fish and chips back at Towngate, Idle, several miles and one condemned bridge down the road. If it had been the Burma Road the Japs would have shot him by now.
The Bridge Over The River Aire
As we approached Buck Mill Bridge, closed off for months to the public by our hopeless Council, Big Al suddenly sensed his options had narrowed as follows:
1 – learn to limbo under the barriers
2 – beg his devoted Luckless Linda to rescue him
3 – risk life and limb attempting a climbing frame for the first time in nearly sixty years
If ever the bridge was to be tested this was surely the time; at least he was unlikely to drop through the hazardous cracked plank. Cometh the hour, cometh the man as he studiously approached the first barrier.
Suddenly, he was up on the frame of the old bridge; did we have a jumper?
Just as we had given up on any chance of seeing the big man again soon, action! He hauled himself onto the old metalwork of this wonderful bridge and heaved his body up and over the foreboding barriers. If only the Berlin Wall had been this easy.
I swear I had not seen him look so happy for many years as he landed with a thump on the other side doubtless doubling the estimated £40k repair bill once the Town Hall planks come to inspect the planks.
As he dropped to the other side it was as if he had been reborn.
Redemption
One man’s redemption can come in many forms and, for Big Al, this was clearly it. Not even the climb out of Buck Woods could daunt him as the stick click-clacked to a joyous beat.
Happy New Year to you all.
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