Rainford Walking Day 16 June 2007

Living abroad for a while and then bringing a non-Brit back to live in England has really brought home to me the traditions and activities that go on in this part of the country. I find that I’m very fond, and pretty proud too, of the industrial heritage of the area and, despite being a lover of all things green and quiet, find myself defending the north west’s scummy factories and ‘dark satanic mills’. There’s a real joy to be had in looking at canal bridges, viaducts, railway embankments, chimneys and mill buildings, to marvel at the architecture, the achievements, the Victorian gung-ho attitude and, at the same time, to ponder what they would have done without cheap labour and a lax safety at work policy.

One of the traditions that survived in my part of the world is the Walking Day. This is where all the schools, churches and community groups get all dressed up and parade from the church to both ends of the village and back again. This year was the first year in many that I’ve actually attended and it was nice to see it hasn’t changed much. Head of the parade is always the parish church dignitaries, the warden and vicar and assorted church staff. When I was a kid, in the 1970s, we weren’t allowed, as a school, to walk (because we were Catholics – oh yes, sectarianism, albeit mild, was alive and well here) but it’s nice to see the rules have now been relaxed now and anyone can participate. This year there were representatives from all the village schools, plus nursery groups – lots of bewildered kids in their Sunday best wondering why they were being force-marched two miles before getting a goodie bag of sweets – the ladies circle, cubs, scouts and brownies, and three brass bands.

As a child, Walking Day was a high point in the year. The whole village would turn out and line the main street. I don’t know if it’s getting old (me, not the parade) or it’s just less popular now, but there definitely didn’t seem to be as many people there watching everyone go past. Probably they’re all worshipping at the altar of Ikea or in the shrine of M&S, giving thanks for all day opening, but that’s their choice, and loss. When we were kids we would have to wait for what seemed like an eternity. A mass was first, then everyone would emerge into the daylight and the milling chaos that is the organisation of a march would take place. A lot of under-10s as well as several other groups of people led to frayed tempers and barked commands but eventually things got moving and everyone would slowly take their places and head off to the Star Inn, where they’d turn round and march back to the Bridge Inn, turn around again and return to the church. Once this had happened we were allowed to go to the fair, which you could always hear, thudding and thumping away on the field behind the church, but couldn’t get to until the procession had finished. This was always the hardest thing to bear, especially as you’d see classmates armed with candy floss and small goldfish in plastic bags, the life expectancy of any generally under a fortnight.

It’s a tradition that goes back many years, and one that’s nice to revisit and I certainly enjoyed going back to witness it again after a break of many years. Unfortunately, all the people I went to school with like to come and watch too, which makes it a bit of a hide and seek kind of day. Well, let’s face it, I’ve lived the last 27 years without speaking to most of the people I went to school with, so I don’t think I’ve got that much to talk about with them. Misery eh?

Anyway, here’s some photos…

The head of the procession, representatives of the parish church.

The band walks through the village one way…

…and then comes back again.

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