Writer’s Note: If you’re here expecting a match report of Huddersfield v Rotherham, you might perhaps wish to scroll to the end. You’ll be disappointed, but you’ll be disappointed quicker.
The rest of you, let me take you on a journey through West Yorkshire. We start at Platform 2b of Leeds Railway Station on a train that is nearly always bound for Bradford Forster Square.
If you haven’t taken this trip, I would heartily recommend it. Too many routes out of Leeds are functional, too many are either major roads or follow major roads and few, if any others, allow you such a splendid view within a few minutes Kirkstall Abbey over the River Aire. From that vantage, the abbey looks huge, and one gets a true idea of the scope and scale of the place and how majestic it must have been when intact, especially given when that would have been. The Dewsbury route might be quicker, but the scrapyard looks bobbins.
It was not a sunny day, that Saturday, and the mist hung heavy over the trees on the horizon, the buildings of old stone standing resolute – having been in the reflective metropolis glass of London the day before, seeing stone resisting the passage of water and time was somewhat poignant. It is different here, not by choice but by necessity.
As we worked closer to Bradford, bisecting some gargantuan and remaining strata stones, an announcement came over the tannoy.
“Welcome to the Skipton train”
I widened my eyes in mild concern. The voice spoke again.
“Welcome to the Bradford Forster Square train”. Wrong button. Relief.
It was about here I started to notice the first flashes of claret and amber, as of course people were heading towards Bradford as City were hosting Harrogate today. The fans on the train in were not especially exuberant, but I suspect they might have been quieter still on the return journey.
I looked out of the train, as in the distance, the chimneys of Shipley began to appear, marking the presence of another of those little stone enclaves set within green hills, each one hidden from the next, but with the veins of first rivers, then footways, then railways, now roads linking them; seemingly closer and closer together as the modern stone houses spread further and further from the centres around which people once gathered.
Unlike in Europe, these hills are not dotted with villages. Their peaks, despite the arboreal presence, too bleak and cold to make habitation worthwhile in comparison to the irrigated verdant valleys
The train takes you in below Valley Parade before you reach Forster Square, the home of Bradford City looming large in a way it doesn’t seem to do when one is inside it. Harrogate, certainly, were not cowed by its scale as they scrapped their way to a 1-1 draw, unfortunate that the Bantams were able to land a blow late on. But it matters, Valley Parade, and it means something.
This is why I wanted to come to Bradford, to the back of Bradford. I have memories here, I have been there, I have spent time there, and I wanted it to come back to me, I want to remember myself of the past, and hold the joys I felt then with me again.
I remember a night out in Bradford, seeing a friend’s band, something I did more often during the early two thousands than I ever remember now. Those nights have disappeared, blurred into a tent in Hipperholme. It came clear as I walked past the Bradford Hotel, the memory, I was back there again, making our way from wherever we had been, staggering back into the Interchange laughing, probably falling against the wall of the Queen under late night streetlights to get the train back to Halifax, to get back to Huddersfield somehow.
On Saturday a man looks out of the Queen sternly, as if in reproach for my behaviour that night.
I bought a Telegraph and Argus and hopped on a bus.
All the roads out of Bradford take you uphill, and take you far uphill; by the time you have slogged your way up the Manchester Road, your stride is laboured. That’s why they exist, these towns, these inns like the Woodman.
The bus, for a bargain of £2, takes you up, up, up, then necessarily peaks, so you descend to whichever adjacent town is your choosing. We rolled through Wyke into Brighouse, and from there tumbled through to Huddersfield. Each junction brought a new sign, some new villages splintered off that nobody would ever visit unless they have family there.
Eventually, we got to Fartown and I caught sight of the Wilko Motorsave, I remember being told the roof had blown off in a storm – a thirty metre square sheet of metal careening across the bottom of York Avenue destroying whatever was in its path. Did it ever happen? It was never missing while I was there, but maybe it was easy to replace.
The final moments of my journey were sad ones – beyond Huddersfield’s ring road on the bus station side is an area marked for demolition, maybe all that is going has gone, maybe there is further land to reclaim. If they were to lead their wrecking ball much further, however, it would involve the destruction of a spectacular building – the old infirmary – that is standing looking empty and derelict and yet remains a spectacular piece of architecture, the likes of which some towns don’t even possess; for Huddersfield to have it, use it, and then leave it to die is wasteful. It is being turned into university accommodation I’m told. It is not the most perfect next stage, but at least it will remain standing for future generations to see.
I boarded another bus out of town, paying, coincidentally (I thought) £2 again. That route took me past the Jules Verne, where one of our school mates was said to work. She looked like a businesswoman by the age of fourteen, short hair cut and trousers, so it was believable even if it was probably just a family member who managed the place.
All of this travelling led me, eventually, to the top of Kilner Bank, whereon the trees have grown to such an extent that the stadium is not as visible as it was, nor the pathways as walkable. You can just about ascertain the roof of the stand, it’s unnatural blue peering through the dense foliage at you, but the only thing that would make you sure you were looking at a football stadium is the number of people, which swell in number the closer you get.
Since I’ve last seen Huddersfield Town play, their home has definitely enjoyed a lick of paint here and there; pristine might be a little extreme, but it certainly looks better than it did. For the irregular visitors, the playlist matching Neil Warnock’s first stint in charge of the club is a fun one, too, even if I never heard the Whole of the Moon by the Waterboys.
I’ve seen the Terriers on the small screen, so I wasn’t expecting pulsating attacking football, though the wide play was impressive even if it brought little reward.
Until his removal during the second half Delano Burgzorg seemed to be on a mission to increase the xG of his attempts, 0.1 at a time. At least after the break we had progressed to the shooting element of the model, rather than the ponderous play sections.
The second goal was the highlight, Jo-jo-jo-Josh Koroma bustling his way free before fizzing a cross that Sorba Thomas turned in at the far post (near post for me).
In the end 2-0 didn’t flatter Huddersfield, and Rotherham have gone home with work to do. I would like to pose the following questions;
How big are Michal Helik’s hands that he can pick up a football clean in one of them?
Why were Rotherham so obsessed with clearing the ball to the area between defence and midfield so that Huddersfield might redouble their attack?
How long before Jack Rudoni is captain of Huddersfield Town?
We walked home happy, and discussed both the match and my journey. It turns out that the Mayor of West Yorkshire, Tracy Brabin, brought in an initiative wherein all bus journeys with the county cost a maximum of £2.
I wanted to highlight this – partly to explain my surprise but partly to support it. The freedom such an initiative will allow people who otherwise might not have it is spectacular, and the buses I used were reliable and clean; it’s all well and good telling people to leave their cars at home and take public transport, but you need viable public transport options to do so.
On the Sunday, my return home was due to be a National Express coach out of Leeds. The original plan was to go from Huddersfield by train, but planned engineering works sent me to Brighouse Station instead early Sunday morning. When I was confronted with a hole in the track, I had to make contingency plans – knowing that I could get a bus for £2 (and I did, retracing my steps back through Bradford) was really beneficial, even if it did eventually end up with me paying the best part of £80 and getting a train anyway.
I’m sure there’s parts of the county that are less well served, and I’m sure there’s other problems too, but this initiative, the Mayor’s Fares, is simple, it’s effective and it’s for the good of the people of West Yorkshire. So well done, Mayor Brabin, on that. Maybe my next Trip in Football can be to Halifax.
From Inside, Right 