12December2025
I slipped out of the old ballbearing plants gate in Sheffield, the same gate where Id clocked in for thirtytwo years. The turnstile was silent, an empty gap in the route Id walked a hundred times. Yellow maple leaves fluttered over the canal, the wind tearing them loose and sending them skittering along the embankment. I knew tomorrow nobody would pass this way; the security would only stay on shift until the end of the month while the equipment was hauled away.
My flat is a onebed on the sixth floor of a council block. At home waited a mug of lukewarm tea and the hush of the stairwell. I sat at the kitchen table, spread out the billsgas, phone, the buildings reserve fund. I had enough to cover two months, then Id have to decide what to pay first. The Jobcentre promised enhanced protection for those approaching retirement, but my record as a lathe operator didnt inspire local employers. The deductions are high, sorry, they said politely.
A week later I walked into the local Jobcentre. The adviser straightened his badge and, in a flat monotone, read out the retraining options for people over 55: security guard, warehouse packer, street cleaner. He handed me a glossy flyer with tiny print about the 2024 benefit scheme. Protection by protection, but there were no vacancies. I left, aimless, and drifted to the riverside. A group of teenagers were listening to a guide from the county heritage centre, who was talking about the old timber warehouse of merchant Ladd. I caught myself thinking I knew more about that place; my greatgrandfather had carted timber sleepers there until a fire in 1916 turned the building to ash.
That evening I dug out the family archive from the back of a wardrobe: old postcards, a stack of yellowed photographs, my grandfathers notebooks. The pages smelled of dry paper and dust. In one entry my grandfather sketched a route from the railway station to the butter churn, noting past the milestones through Ratcliffe Valley. I read it quickly and felt a flicker of excitement. What if I could show the city the way the old backstreets remember itplainly, honestly?
Applications for guide accreditation close in March, the tourism officer said, sliding a brochure across the desk. After that youll be prohibited from working as a guide without a licence, under the national law. There are courses, but we have very few spots. I handed her a rough draft of my walk: Station, Ladds Descent, Leatherstream. She nodded without looking up. Leave it with us, well consider it. Ten minutes later I was standing in a corridor, eyeing the peeling plaster on the walls. The draft lay on the table, stapled flat.
The next morning I set out with a notebook. At a roadside stall, former welder Fred was selling apples from his garden. Planning a tour? he sneered. People need jobs, not stories. I still noted, Stall sits on former 1890s fireengine column, stone foundationverify. The entry looked tentative, but each line gave the day purpose.
By dusk I reached the library on High Street. The reading room closed at nine. Senior librarian Margaret showed me the local history shelf and sighed, Theyre rarely borrowed, mostly by university students and then only by appointment. I leafed through bound reports: the city council minutes of 1914, the almanac River and Dock. Names and dates fell out of the pages, but one detail caught my eyea bridge built by the steelworks carpenters that lasted only two years before a flood washed it away.
Three weeks later I returned to the council offices, notebook in hand, pages already dense with ink. The deputy head of the Culture Department skimmed the first few pages, glanced at his phone and said, We have a Historic Centre route approved, budget allocated. Your facts are interesting, but first you need a guide licence. Try again in the spring if funding is extended. In the hallway I felt a mix of irritation and stubborn resolve. If they wont stop me, Ill keep pressing on.
On a frosty November morning, when the grass showed a thin layer of frost, I met former shiftsupervisor Neil outside the lift. He was heading to a construction site as a labourer and asked, Still chasing after books? I answered, Yes. Some things dont bring profit but they keep you alive. He shrugged, then offered, I can lend you a camera if you need one.
The city archive smelled of damp plaster and cold limewash; the radiators barely warmed the room. I sat in a thick jacket at a particleboard desk, thumbing through the 1911 edition of the Suburban Gazette. Columns about fairs gave way to notices of lost wallets. I pencilled a note about the launch of a horsedrawn tram line from the station to the main squarea line omitted from every textbook. Perhaps it was too short to be remembered, but even that tiny thread reshaped the picture.
Back home that night the kettle whistled, and my laptop displayed the price of professional guide courses: £14,000, even with a subsidy it was steep. Yet thoughts of the route kept circling my mind. The radio warned of an early December cold snap; the first ten days promised lows of minus five. I pulled my collar up, fetched an old document folder from the cupboard so I wouldnt mix anything up tomorrow.
On 5December, as the first rare snowflakes drifted over the market square, I was again alone in the archive. The archivist brought out a heavy box of photographs from a prewar industrial exhibition. I turned the cards slowly until I spotted a glossy image: a pavilion bustling with men in flat caps, and in the distance a small carriage labelled Lagoon Line. Rails stretched toward the station, a portly constable strolling along the pavement. I froze. No reference work or local history monograph mentioned a Lagoon Line, which meant I was holding the only proof of a forgotten tram branch. I slipped the photo into an envelope, slid it into my inner pocket. The tour had to start, even if I had to build it from scratch. There was no turning back.
With the sole evidence sealed in the envelope, I felt as though I were carrying an entire carriage through the streets. After leaving the archive I didnt head straight home; I stopped at the library where the scanner still worked and Margaret asked nothing more. In five minutes the card became a clear digital file, stamped 20July1912. I compared the handwritten Lagoon Line to the earlier note about the traman exact match.
That evening I emailed the picture to myself and posted it in the local Facebook group Our Town, Our Streets: Anyone heard of this line? Collecting material for a walk. I added a cautious caption: Gathering resources for a guided tour. Replies came quicklylaughing emojis, question marks, one skeptic wrote Photoshop. By morning a history teacher Id met at the community centre, MrTolchard, asked for a copy for his afterschool club, and the group admin offered to write a short article.
Two days later the deputy head of Culture, the same man who had flipped through my notebook, called. His tone was tight but polite: Wed like to see the original. I agreed to meet at the town hall and arrived with the folder. The reception smelled of stapled papers and old linoleum. The official, glancing at his watch, asked me to leave the card for authenticity verification. I shook my head firmly: I cant leave it, but I can show it and send a scan. My persistence paid off; they invited me to sit on the next accreditation panel on 18December. Without a licence, they reminded me, charging for tours would be illegal.
A week remained before the panel. Mornings I thought of the lathe, where every piece fit neatly into its slot. Here there were no slots, but there was logic: drown doubts in facts. I printed my route, added a stop at the old depot, and phoned Neil: You said youd lend a camera? He promised to bring it on Sunday. Under a thin crust of snow we walked the whole pathfrom the station to the little park where the rails had once converged. Neil snapped pictures, muttering about cold fingers, then admitted, Its nice to walk when you have something to tell. Those words warmed me more than any gloves.
The accreditation panel convened in the colleges assembly hall: three experts, a county representative, and a dozen applicants. I held a folder of photographs, scanned newspaper clippings, and an archive extract. They started with formal questionssafety standards, tourist rights, route sheets. Then they asked for a hook. I unfolded the Lagoon Line picture and explained briefly how the branch only stretched eight blocks before a flood washed it away, which is why it vanished from most records. A woman on the panel suggested, This could become part of the municipal heritage programme. Half an hour later they announced the results: eight candidates passed, including me, Simon Harper. They handed me a temporary licencea laminated card bearing the councils crest.
The next morning I pinned the badge to my jacket and posted a flyer: Walking Tour The Tram That Never Was Sunday, meet at the old clock tower. The fee was symbolic: £150 per person. By noon twelve locals had signed uplibrarian Margaret, MrTolchard with two Year10 students, and, to my surprise, the deputy heads secretary. Snow fell lightly, the pavement creaked as the group set off to the first stop.
I spoke plainly, much like I once instructed a shift before starting the lathesclear, without flourish. I showed an old photograph of the market square, explained how horses once pulled the tram carts, and how boys would toss stones to make the rails tinkle. At the former fireengine column I unfurled a large tablet displaying the scanned Lagoon Line cardNeils generous loan. MrTolchard gasped, the secretary filmed a short clip, the pupils begged to hold the tablet. For the first time in weeks I heard someone whisper to their neighbour, Could it really be true? That murmur sounded louder than any applause.
After the twohour stroll we gathered at the final stop, handed out mugs of steaming tea from a thermos, and placed a box on the trashcan lid for feedback. People dropped cash and scribbled phone numbers. The city secretary said briefly, Management asked me to pass on their thanks and suggest we add the route to the official spring schedule, if you prepare the paperwork. I nodded, noting silently that this was the first time the council spoke of we rather than you. I tucked the contact card into my inner pocket, next to the envelope.
That evening, after removing my boots on the mat, I spread the takings on the kitchen table: exactly £1,500. Not a fortune, but enough to pay the broadband and a chunk of the bills. The lamp over the table cast a steady glow; the newspaper with the preretirement support notice lay beneath the kettle, now far less intimidating. I opened my notebook and wrote, Next project the 1913 archedbridge washed away by flood. A sliver of light from the streetlamp painted the snow outside. The town breathed quietly, without grand gestures, yet there was a place for me in that breath.
Two days later I delivered a packet to the councilroute sheets, copies of archive documents, and a letter offering a short workshop for municipal guides. The secretary looked surprised but accepted the papers. As I left, I paused by the community notice board; a fresh flyer for the Spring Street Walks Festival was pinned there, dated March. An empty space beneath it awaited new postings. I imagined the number of steps from the board to the old depotthirtyeight, exactly the distance from my lathe to the factory window. The body remembers distances even when the routes change.
Before bed I took the original Lagoon Line photograph from the envelope, held it up to the desk lamp, and slipped it into a plastic sleeve. I pinned a city map to the wall, marking the spots that still needed a voice with tiny red pins. The room was free of the clatter of machines or the smell of oilonly the soft rustle of snow against the window. I switched off the main light, leaving the desk lamp as a nightlight. Its speckled glow fell across the map. The walk was far from over.
