With Morecambe struggling in League Two D3D4 Shrimps correspondent Roger Fitton travelled north to Carlisle to see his side pick up a valuable three points. This is his tale of that trip….enjoy!

A Trip to Carlisle by Roger Fitton

From Callum to Calamity. Potentially… 

Day Out to Carlisle, anybody? It seemed a good idea to me at least to buy train tickets to watch the clash between Carlisle United and Morecambe on Saturday, 13^th October 2018. No motorway driving. The possibility of a couple of drinks without any worries about breathalysers. Probably cheaper than driving too – the return fare to the border city from Lancaster was just over twenty quid for two of us.

So off we went. I drove us the seven miles south to Lancashire’s County town instead of catching a local train. Why? Because Northern were on strike and we thought we might not get there otherwise.

I‘ve moaned on these pages previously about Virgin Trains so I won’t bore everyone with constant whingeing about them all over again. Besides which – I don’t know about you – but it doesn’t take a lot to buy my silence.  What would you settle for to keep your mouth shut?

A hundred? Five hundred? A thousand then?

I held out and settled for one thousand, nineteen hundred and seventeen. Pence. Or £17.56  if you prefer: half the price on my return ticket to Shropshire last year. Virgin refunded me this amount after the Shrewsbury trip – and their `contribution’ almost covered the fare I paid for us both to travel to Carlisle.

As we have learnt previously on these pages “Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame.”  It’s also far too easy to slag other people off for their gross stupidity, isn’t it? Today, however, I had no excuses. I misread the tickets I had bought and we turned-up a whole hour earlier than we needed to in order to catch the relevant service: the 1155 to Glasgow Central.

Oh dear. A Senior Moment. Yes – another one…

I thought I would enquire as to whether or not we could travel on an earlier train – there was one due in about ten minutes. The absolutely delightful lady manning the Customer Information berth for Virgin at Lancaster Station told me that because of adverse weather conditions, delayed and cancelled trains, leaves on the line, shortages of crew and the juxtaposition of Leo and Pisces in the Crab Nebula, anyone with a ticket to anywhere could do whatever they liked with it. More or less…

So we travelled on the only slightly delayed 10.55 train north.

There’s not an App for Virgin Weather as far as I know.  (Branson is probably working on one right now…) But as the remnants of Storm Callum swept across the West Coast of England, the rainfall and high winds meant a speed restriction all the way from Carnforth to Penrith: fifty miles an hour. So – as we saw lorries on the adjacent M6 motorway keeping pace with us as we headed up the notorious Shap incline, I was inclined to think that my gross stupidity earlier might have been a Blessing In Disguise. The weather wasn’t getting any better and the West Coast mainline has been the victim of landslides and overhead cable damage due to storms in very recent memory. So it occurred to me that the train we should have been on might not be running at all as further trillions of gallons of water per minute cascaded from the heavy clouds above.

There was a lot of evidence of the Police as we left Carlisle `Citadel’ station.  Don’t ask me why. We headed left down English Street directly for Bank Street and John Watt’s tea shop. Annie and I were last in Carlisle (courtesy of a free Travel Pass from Northern trains, sent to me in compensation for other cock-ups earlier this year) about six weeks ago. In this tea-blending shop of ancient repute, we had such a delicious bowl of tomato soup that the Chef (a woman) was produced in order to receive our accolades personally. “The secret is Tarragon” she said, “Just the right amount.” Today’s soup (lentil) was just as good – as was the toastie and specially-blended house tea which went with it.

We walked through the rain here next:

That’s right- to put in a good word at Head Office for the lads later. I had listened to Gardener’s Question Time the previous day, which had been recorded in Carlisle. (Thinks: tea shops; Cathedrals; Tarragon; Radio 4 – O.M.G. – I’m Middle Class!!!!…)Anyway, during the intro to the programme, it was claimed that Carlisle Cathedral would have been one of the largest anywhere on earth – if it wasn’t for the fact that the Scots used to regularly invade in the past and burn it down. I suggested this to the lady in a sort of habit who pounced on us as we arrived and she said:

“That is absolute nonsense!” (And she wasn’t Scottish.) Given the sad nerd that I am – sorry, sad Middle Class nerd that I am – I asked her about the main stained glass window, which also merited a mention in the radio programme – I think they said it was the biggest of its sort to be found anywhere. Most of it dates from 1851 but the upper part was built by monks in the 1300s so it’s seven hundred years old. Mind-boggling…

I took a photograph of it but it’s just an over-exposed mass of white light. So you’ll have to make do with a photo of the ceiling in the main part of the building to get an idea of its grandeur:

It was almost two by this time so we made our way towards Brunton Park to the east of the city centre. On the way, we passed this:

The Howard Arms was once a tied house of Sir Richard Hodgson’s Old Brewery. Its frontage – the tiles are by Royal Doulton – was fairly typical of Old Brewery pubs.

On the way back to the station after the game, we passed this on the City Centre end of Warwick Road:

Back in the day, this was a pub called The White House. Round the corner on Lowther Street near to the Howard Arms, Carlisle’s main post office could once be found. But a hundred years ago, it was transformed into pub with a canteen attached. It opened in this guise as the Gretna Arms in 1916.  Along with the White House and at least fifteen other “New Model” pubs, these were designed by an architect called Harry Redfern. Or was it Harry Redknapp? Nearby, in Rickergate, were about thirty pubs on a relatively short street. Pisshead’s delight. Overnight, however, sixteen of them were shut-down. Permanently. The four breweries which once served the city – Hodgson’s; Iredale’s; New Brewery and Graham’s – were also seized by the government and shut down. At the same time, all Carlisle’s pubs and off-licenses fell into the hands of the State. So if we had been walking these streets a hundred years ago, all the licensed premises we would have come across would have been owned by the government. Under the War Powers Act, a body called the Central Control Board (Liquor Trade) was created to do this. (Older Carlisle residents still routinely refer to public houses as “Board Pubs” – ok; probably actually “Board Pubs, eh?”) The Board ran the liquor trade in Carlisle (and nearby Maryport as well before long, where they also shut down the existing brewery and the pubs deemed to be drinking dens) until it was succeeded by something called the State Management Scheme. This operated from Hodgson’s Old Brewery from 1916 until 1975, when Ted Heath’s Tory government sold it off(It was the only nationalised industry in Britain which always made a profit and Heath wanted that profit to go to his many pals in the Brewing Trade, not into the public coffers. All in the `national interest’ of course…) So if Annie and I had made this visit fifty years ago, any pub we might have gone into would have been owned by HM Government.

But today, we stayed absolutely sober. The Fosters at the ground looked pretty unappetising – come back State Management Scheme’s Nut Brown – all is forgiven…

Before the game.

As we trudged through the rain, we saw some really grand buildings – Chatsworth Square for example – of Gothic; Arts & Crafts and classic Georgian design. There were some moneyed folk round here at one time without any doubt. Then we reached the part of Warwick Road which was under water only a few years ago and carried on through the rain to the ground to Brunton Park.

What is there to say about this place? Well – the Cathedral we had visited earlier was a bit wobbly – but, given that it’s nine hundred years old, it has an excuse. In truth, the photos probably describe it better than I could:

The main stand

The Warwick Road End with its famous roof

They don’t make them like that anymore!

We’ve been here before and were surprised then that the so-called `accommodation’ for disabled away fans was a bare piece of ground in a corner of the ground with no shelter, no toilet facilities or access to any catering. Neither of us thought this sort of thing was allowed in these supposedly `enlightened’ days.

Since then, the club has added some seating. Wet seating. That’s very thoughtful of them, isn’t it?

Today, it was pouring down and I wanted to speak to the carer who was parked on this windswept, sodden bomb site to see what he thought about it. But that meant having to walk by the side of the hallowed pitch. Which, of course, you’re not allowed to do. Even if you ask a Steward for permission.

“Can you ask him to come over here then?” I asked the Jobsworth who was stopping me. Christ’s sake… Reluctantly, she did.

The carer – Sam, who I know by sight – was there with 21 year old Jordan in his wheelchair. This is not the first time they’ve been to Brunton Park. So they knew what to expect. But first time, they didn’t – and they would have got completely instead of slightly soaked if a Morecambe fan hadn’t managed to get an umbrella to them from out of the crowd. This is a picture taken during the first half of the match as the rain relented for a brief while:

Loads of Stewards as well as the police. But guess what? – once the heavens opened again, they all disappeared. Leaving Sam and Jordan to get drenched all alone.

This is my abiding memory of today’s game. It is an absolute disgrace:

The club clearly don’t insist on their Stewards remaining on this piece of wasteland when it rains. So why should any visiting supporter be obliged to?

To be fair, Sam told us later that a Steward had offered him covered accommodation during the game. But that was after himself and Jordan had already been out in the open for about half an hour in the unrelenting wetness at the time. More importantly, it meant being in with disabled Carlisle supporters. No offence to them but:

“The main thing I bring Jordan to watch Morecambe for is the pleasure he gets from being near our own fans. It gives him a sense of belonging. Why should he be denied that just for the cost of a bit of perspex to keep the weather off?”

Why indeed? This very important fact is clearly not appreciated by whoever is in charge of these things at Carlisle United. The pleasure Jordan had got from the experience – and particularly the win – was palpable at the end of the game. For Annie – who, as a physiotherapist – used to work with people like him at Bleasdale House in Silverdale near to where we live, this was particularly moving. And his pleasure when she spoke to him about it made Yours Truly feel quite emotional too. She knows what it means to disabled people in particular to be able to have social interactions like this: it goes much deeper than football. So all the more shame on the Cumbrians for having such a Neanderthal attitude towards disability…

I was glad to see that Kevin Ellison took the time to speak to Jordan and shake his hand as he and other injured Morecambe players left the stand towards the end of the game. They had sat among us for the duration of the match.

Here he is, second left, with Andy Fleming (on crutches) to his right and Steven Old to his left. Garry Thompson – who has been out since last season with a serious injury – is on the right of the picture. It’s good to see the players actually interact with their own supporters and I hope Kev didn’t eat all the Haribo sweets little Alfie near us kept offering him…

But there was a bit of intrigue during the game as well. Here, one of us appeared to be Helping the Boys In Blue with their Enquiries:

It turned out that PC Plod was responding to this message which some of our number were seeing on Twitter:

This was from Virgin Trains. As was this, later:

Other messages, such as this one, were also appearing as the match progressed from Cumbria Police:

Blimey! No trains. Landslips. Hell Fire and Brimstone… 

So we didn’t know what to expect as we walked though the gathering darkness and the drizzle back to the railway station after Morecambe’s famous victory. (Match report here.)

“Get on the train at Platform three!” said the Virgin staff member we asked when we arrived there. So we did. As we sat in First Class accommodation, the Train Manager stopped to chat when he saw my Morecambe shirt.

“I hope you haven’t been upsetting those Carlisle United supporters!” he said. I take my hat off to this man: with a train full of disgruntled passengers, speaking to any of them is probably taking your life in your hands. But guess what? He was a fellow Morecambe fan who must be regretting

a) That he didn’t take time off to witness a rare victory away from home and

b) That he chose to work on this most difficult of all days in the first place.

But as I said when I moaned endlessly about the company he works for last year – they are all Lions Led By Donkeys. Hats Off to all of them…

Across the table from us were a young couple with a five month old baby called Max who were heading to London, having set off from Scotland at ten in the morning. The train they had been on had got as far as Lambsrigg (just to the north of Kendal) earlier on. And then stopped. Only to travel the fifty or so miles back to Carlisle for reasons only to be guessed at.  When we finally left the City, they had been there for over four hours.  So they could have walked to Brunton Road, watched the game and then walked back again.

“Er – I think I would rather have stayed on the train!” said the father of said child, rocking the infant to sleep. He didn’t actually – he was far too polite. But if little son Max’s first words aren’t “Jim Bentley’s Big Red Army!” it won’t be for my lack of trying. Get ’em young, that’s what I say…

I hope they got home without any further delays. And I hope all my fellow fans did so too – despite the contradictory and confused messages from the Police and Virgin earlier.

So – what a day. Morecambe winning and deservedly so. Not getting drowned. Or derailed. And being on the first train to actually make it past the landslip at Lambsrigg. Just a regular day out for your average football fan.

Day trip to Gomorrah, anybody?…