It was always the smell of coal tar that told me we would soon be there. Growing up in South London, I was different from the other children. Mum was from Sheffield, with different sayings like ‘mardy’, ‘poorly’ and ‘lass’ and an odd combination of Yorkshire customs mixed with London habits. We had dinner at lunch time but drank from porcelain cups. One weekend a month from as far back as I can remember until the age of 11, we were woken just after midnight, packed into the car in our pyjamas and driven north.
In those days the M1 was in its infancy and mum preferred to drive through London in her ancient Ford Capri, round Hyde Park Corner to join the A1. We would stop at the Ram Jam Inn in Rutland for breakfast, heading through the Dukeries and into the Derbyshire coalfield. My earliest memories are of Clowne and Bolsover, sleeping in the early morning with the pit gear winding and the smell of coal tar.
Ice skating in Nottinghamshire
One winter, the car slid and slipped along the road in an ice-bound Nottinghamshire, mum gripping the wheel for dear life, my brother and I rigid with fear! Through the freezing fog, a couple emerged and flagged us down. Their car, which was being driven by a third member of the group, had gone off the road and was now upside down in the hedge. In the days before the compulsory wearing of seatbelts, the driver had been thrown through the windscreen and was bleeding profusely from the head.
With little idea of our exact location, mum parked up as best she could, told one of the couple to stay with the casualty and loaded the other into our car. Off we went, skating down the road to the nearest phone box where our passenger called the police. Unfazed, we then resumed our dangerous journey. Those were the days!
Breakfast in Sheffield
On each occasion when we arrived in Sheffield, Nanan would be at the end of the drive, in her apron, watching for us. We could see her, but she never saw us until the last minute when mum would sound her horn embarrassingly loudly. There were always oatcakes and jam for breakfast, with orange juice from the local Co-op. Dead tired but determined not to give in, out we would go to play with the neighbour’s children who never thought we ‘sounded funny’.
After a longish sleep mid-morning, off we would all troop into Sheffield city centre on a huge blue and cream corporation bus. There was a bus stop outside Nanan’s front room, and we could see the bus from the upstairs back bedroom as it wound round one of the numerous hills. We would then shout “Bus!”, which gave her just enough time to feed the cat before the bus arrived. Once at Pond Street with the blue huts and the old-fashioned ‘Hulleys’ (Hulley’s of Baslow, the cream and blue buses with their huge gear sticks and rickety seats) we would climb up the side of Flat Street and descend into the depths via the Hole in the Road.
Forging a Sheffielder identity
My brother was often reprimanded by older ladies (who were probably younger than I am now), “Will you stop taunting fish, lad?” (remember that huge fish tank built into the Hole in the Road? I think it was demolished sometime in the 1990s when Supertram was built!). Back in school in suburban London, I straddled two cultures with very distinct identities, often feeling internally displaced, belonging to both but neither.
Fast forward 40 years. Both my brother and I have come back to Sheffield after living in many different places. Neither of us married northerners, but we came back with our families independently, and we all love Sheffield. Driving back from London these days, I know we are almost home when once again I sometimes smell the coal tar, and I remember my northern Nanan.
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