15May2025 Diary
I slipped out of the gate of the old gearbox factory on the outskirts of Sheffield, a slip of paper with my calculations tucked deep in my pocket. The gates, where Id clocked on for thirtytwo years, stood silent, a gap in a route Id taken for decades. Yellow maple leaves fluttered over the River Don, the wind whipping them against the fence. I knew tomorrow no one would come here; the security team would stay only until the end of the month while the remaining equipment was taken away.
Back home in my onebedroom flat on the sixth floor, a mug of lukewarm tea waited beside the quiet hallway. I spread the bills on the kitchen table gas, telephone, the buildings reserve fund. The money would last me a month or two at best, then Id have to decide what to pay. The Jobcentre promised enhanced protection for preretirees, yet my record as a turner on a lathe did little to impress the local smallbusiness owners. Contributions are high, Im sorry, theyd say politely.
A week later I walked into the Jobcentre. The advisor adjusted my badge and, in a monotone voice, listed the retraining options for anyone over fiftyfive: security guard, warehouse packer, cleaner. He handed me a glossy flyer with tiny print about the 2024 benefit scheme much protection on paper, but zero vacancies. With nothing else in mind, I drifted to the waterfront. A group of teenagers listened to a guide from the county heritage centre, who spoke of the old wooden warehouse of the merchant Ladkin. I caught myself thinking I knew more: my greatgrandfather had hauled railway sleepers there until the fire of 1916 reduced the building to ashes.
That evening I dug out the family archive from the cupboard postcards, a stack of yellowed photographs, my grandfathers notebooks. The pages smelled of dry paper and dust. In one note my grandfather sketched a route from the station to the butter churn: past the milestones through Ratton Dale. My eyes ran over it and a quiet thrill rose within me. What if I could show the city as the old courtyards remember it, not with pretence but with honesty?
Applications for guide accreditation close in March, said MrsEthel, the tourism officer, as she thumbed through a brochure. After that, unlicensed guides will be prohibited by law. She glanced at my rough itinerary Station, Ladkins Descent, Leather Creek and simply nodded, Well consider it. Ten minutes later I found myself in a hallway, staring at peeling plaster, the route sheet pressed flat by a stapler.
The next morning I set out with my notebook. At a roadside fruit stall, former welder Fred was selling apples from his garden. Thinking of doing tours? he scoffed. People need jobs, not stories. I still wrote down: Stall sits on the site of an 1890s fire hydrant, stone foundation verify. The note felt tentative, but each line gave the day meaning.
By dusk I reached the library on Sheffield Road. The senior librarian, MrsLove, led me to the local history shelf and sighed, Theyre hardly ever borrowed, only by students and then by appointment. I leafed through the municipal report of 1914 and the almanac River and Quay. Dates and names spilled from the pages, but one detail caught my eye: a bridge erected by factory smiths lasted only two years before a flood washed it away.
Three weeks later I returned to the council with a thick notebook, its pages already crowded with notes. The deputy head of culture flipped through the front, eyes flicking to his phone. We already have a Historic Centre route approved and funded. Your facts are interesting, but youll need a guide licence first. Try again in spring if the budget is extended. A mix of irritation and stubborn resolve settled over me. If they wouldnt stop me, I would keep looking.
A November morning, the grass grey with frost, I met former shift supervisor MrNettle outside my block. Still chasing books? he asked. I nodded. There are things that dont pay but help you live. He shrugged, then offered, I can lend you a camera if you need it.
The city archive smelled of damp plaster and cold lime; the radiators barely warmed the room. I sat at a particleboard table, leafing through the 1911 edition of the Suburban Life newspaper. Columns about fairs alternated with notices of lost wallets. I pencilled a note about a horsedrawn line that once ran from the station to the main square a detail absent from any guidebook. Perhaps it was too short to be remembered, yet that tiny thread reshaped the picture I was building.
That night the kettle shrieked; the laptop displayed the fee for a professional guide course £150 even after the subsidy, still steep. The radio warned of an early December snow, the first ten days forecasted at minus five. I fetched an old folder from the cupboard so I wouldnt mix anything up the next day.
5December the first flakes twirled over the town square. Back in the archive, the archivist wheeled out a heavy box of photographs from the prewar industrial exhibition. My fingers brushed a glossy image of a gleaming pavilion, a crowd in flat caps, and, in the distance, a small carriage labelled Lagoon Line. Rails stretched toward the station, a stout policeman marching beside them. No guidebook mentioned such a line; I held in my hand proof of a forgotten tram branch.
I slipped the photograph into an envelope, tucking it into the inner pocket of my notebook. The tour had to start, even if I had to build it from scratch. There was no turning back.
The next day I scanned the card; the file bore a date stamp of 20July1912. The handwritten Lagoon Line matched exactly. I posted the image in the community chat Our Town Our Streets, asking, Has anyone heard of this line? Replies came fast emojis, question marks, a skeptic shouting Photoshop. By morning a history teacher asked for a copy for his club, and the group admin offered to write a short article.
Two days later the deputy head of culture called, his voice tight but courteous. Wed like to see the original. I met him in the town hall; the reception smelled of staplers and old linoleum. He asked to keep the card for authenticity verification. I shook my head, I cant leave it, but I can show you and send a scan. My persistence earned an invitation to the assessment commission on 18December. Without a licence, charging for tours would be illegal.
A week remained. I remembered the lathe work every part fitting precisely into its slot. Here there were no slots, only gaps to fill with facts. I printed the route, added a stop at the former depot, and called Nettle for the promised camera. On Sunday, under a thin crust of snow, we walked the whole path from the station to the old rail yard. Nettle snapped, grumbling about cold hands, then admitted, Its interesting to walk when you have something to say. His words warmed me more than any gloves.
The commission convened in the technical college hall: three experts, a county representative, and a dozen applicants. I laid out the file photographs, scanned newspaper clippings, an archive extract. They asked about safety, tourist rights, route sheets. Then, Give us a hook. I unfolded the Lagoon Line picture and explained that it was a short eightblock branch dismantled after a flood, which is why it vanished from records. One expert suggested the story could fit into the municipal heritage programme. The verdict came half an hour later: eight candidates passed, among them JamesHarper. A temporary licence a laminated card with the county crest was handed to me on the spot.
The following morning I pinned the badge to my jacket and posted a notice: Walking tour The Tram That Never Was Sunday, meet at the old clock tower. The price was modest £1.50 per person. By noon twelve locals had signed up: the librarian, the teacher, two of his Year10 pupils, and, to my surprise, the deputys secretary. Light snow fell, the pavement creaked as the group set off.
I spoke clearly, much as I once instructed a shift before a machine startup concise, no unnecessary gestures. I showed a photograph of the old market square, talked of horses pulling carts on rails, of boys tossing stones to make the rails ring. At the former fire hydrant stop I displayed a large tablet with the scanned Lagoon Line card Nettles kindness made the picture come alive. The teacher gasped, the secretary filmed, the children begged to hold the tablet. For the first time in weeks I heard someone whisper to his neighbour, Could it be true? The whisper was louder than any applause.
After the twohour walk I handed out hot tea from a thermos at the endpoint, and placed a box for feedback on the lid of a trash bin. People dropped cash and their contact details. The city secretary said, Management wants to thank you and suggests adding the route to the official spring schedule, if you prepare the paperwork. I noted silently that this was the first time the council spoke of we rather than you. I tucked the contact card into my inner pocket, nextThe next morning, as the first sun warmed the frostkissed streets, I unfolded my notebook and set out to chart the next hidden chapter of Sheffields forgotten past.
