Exploring a New Trail on Foot

I still remember the day I slipped out of the gate of the old ballbearing factory in Sheffield, a thin slip of paper clenched in my pocket. The gate, where I had clocked on for thirtytwo years, lay silent as a hole in a familiar road. Yellow leaves fluttered from poplars over the Grand Union Canal, the wind tearing them loose and sweeping them along the fence. I knew tomorrow no one would come here; the nightwatch would only stay on duty until the end of the month while the last of the equipment was hauled away.

Back at my studio flat on the sixth floor, a mug of cooling tea waited, and the hallways were mute. I spread the bills on the kitchen tablegas, telephone, the buildingmaintenance fund. The reserves would cover a month or two, then Id have to decide what to pay first. The employment office promised enhanced support for those nearing retirement, but my record as a turner did little to impress the local employers. The contributions are high, I’m sorry, they would say politely.

A week later I walked into the jobcentre. The adviser straightened my badge and, in a monotonous voice, listed the retraining options for those over fiftyfive: security guard, warehouse packer, street sweeper. A glossy flyer tucked in a folder boasted about the 2024 benefit scheme, but the vacancies were nil. I stepped back onto the street, unsure where to go, and drifted toward the riverside. A crowd of teenagers listened to a guide from the county heritage centre speak of the wooden warehouse of the merchant Laddigan. I caught myself knowing more about that place: my greatgrandfather had carted sleepers there until the fire of 1916 turned the building to ash.

That evening I pulled an old family archive from the cupboarda stack of postcards, a bundle of yellowed photographs, my grandfathers notebooks. The pages smelled of dry paper and dust. In one notebook my grandfather had sketched a route from the railway station to the butter churn, past the mileposts through Ratty Glen. I ran my eyes over it and felt a flicker of excitement. What if I showed the town as the old backstreets remembered it, without grandiose pretence, but with plain honesty?

The application for guide accreditation can be lodged until March, the tourism officer said, sliding a brochure across the desk. After that, youll be forbidden to work as a guide without a licence, under the new national law. There are programmes, but theyre few here. I handed her a rough outline of a walk: Station, Laddigan Descent, Leather Stream. She nodded without looking up. Leave it, well consider it. Ten minutes later I was already in the corridor, eyeing the flaking plaster. My draft lay on the table, pressed flat by a stapler.

The next morning I set out with my notebook. At the bread kiosk the former welder Tommy was hawking apples from his garden. Planning tours? he snorted. People need work, not stories. I still wrote down: Kiosk sits on the site of an 1890s fire hydrant; stone foundationverify. The entry was tentative, but each line gave the day purpose.

By dusk I reached the councilstreet library. The reading room stayed open until nine. Senior librarian Ethel showed me the localhistory shelf, sighing, Its hardly ever borrowed, only by students and then by special request. I thumped through the bindings: the 1914 citycouncil report, the almanac *River and Quay*. Names and dates fell out in a jumble, but occasionally a detail sparkledlike the bridge built by the factorys ironworkers that lasted only two years before a flood tore it down.

Three weeks later I returned to the council with my notebook, now thick with scribbles. The deputy head of culture flipped through the first pages, glanced at his phone, and said, We already have a Historical Centre route approved, budget set. Your facts are interesting, but first you need a guide licence. Try again in spring if funding extends. I felt a mix of irritation and stubborn resolve. If nothing stopped me from searching, I would keep on.

On a November morning, when the grass wore a frosty grey, I met former shiftmaster Mr. Norris at the stairs. He was heading to a construction site as a labourer and asked, Still chasing the books? I answered, Yes. Some things dont bring profit but they keep you alive. He shrugged, then offered, Ill lend you my camera, might come in handy.

The town archive smelled of fresh plaster and cold lime; the radiators were barely warm. I sat in a heavy coat at a chipboard desk, leafing through the *Country Life* newspaper of 1911. Columns on fairs were interspersed with notices of lost wallets. I pencilled a note about a horsedrawn tram line that ran from the station to the main squarea line absent from any textbook. Perhaps it was too short to be remembered, yet that tiny thread began to rewrite the picture.

That night the kettle whistled, and my laptop displayed the fee for a professional guide course: fourteen hundred pounds, even with the subsidy it was steep. Yet the route kept looping in my mind. The radio warned of an early snow; the first ten days of December were forecast at minus five degrees. I pulled my collar up and fetched an old document folder so I wouldnt mix anything up the next day.

On the fifth of December, when the first rare flakes swirled above the square, I was again alone in the archive. The archivist hauled a heavy box of photographs from a prewar industrial exhibition. I turned the cards slowly until a glossy pavilion caught my eye, a crowd in kettle hats, and in the background a tiny carriage bearing the inscription Lagoon Line. No reference to such a line existed in any guide or monograph, and suddenly I held proof of the towns first, however brief, tram branch. I slipped the picture into an envelope, tucking it into my inner pocket. The excursion now had a foundation, even if I would have to rebuild it from scratch.

I took the card to the library, where the scanner worked perfectly, and the screen stamped the date 20 July 1912. I compared the handwritten Lagoon Line with the note Id read earlier; they matched.

That evening I sent the image to myself and posted it in the community chat *Our Yard Our Town*: Colleagues, has anyone heard of this line? I signed cautiously, Gathering material for a walk. Replies came fastsmileys, question marks, and one sceptic who wrote Photoshop. By morning the history teacher Mr. Tolchakev asked for a copy for his school club, and the chat administrator suggested a short article.

Two days later the deputy head of culture rang himself. Wed like to see the original, he said, his voice tight yet courteous. I agreed to meet at the town hall, bringing the folder. The reception smelled of staplers and old linoleum. The official asked me to leave the card for authenticity checks, but I shook my head. I cant leave it, but I can show it and send a scan. My obstinacy paid off: they invited me to the certification commission on the eighteenth of December. Without a licence, charging for tours would be illegal.

A week remained. Each morning I recalled the lathe, how every piece fit precisely into its slot. Here there were no slots, but there was logic: facts could shut out doubts. I printed the route, added a stop at the former depot, and phoned Mr. Norris. You said youd lend a camera? I asked. Might be useful. On Sunday, under a thin crust of snow, we walked the whole linefrom the station to the square where the rails had once converged. Norris clicked his shutter, grumbling that his hands were cold, then admitted, Its nice to walk when you have something to listen to. Those words warmed me more than any gloves.

The commission gathered in the technical college hall: three experts, a regional representative, and a dozen hopefuls. I placed my file of photographs, newspaper scans, and archive excerpts on the table. They first asked about safety standards, tourist rights, and route sheets. Then they wanted the hook. I unfolded the Lagoon Line picture and explained how that eightblock branch had been dismantled after a flood, which is why it barely appeared in any record. One woman leaned forward and said, That could become part of the municipal programme. When the results were announced half an hour later, eight candidates had passed, among them Stephen Sharpe. They handed me a temporary licencea laminated card bearing the countys coat of arms.

The next morning I pinned the badge to my coat and posted a notice: Walking tour The Tram That Never Was Sunday, meet at the old clock tower. The fee was modestone pound fifty pence per person. By noon twelve locals had signed up: librarian Ethel, Mr. Tolchakev with two Year10 pupils, and, to my surprise, the secretary of the very deputy head of culture. Snow fell lightly, windless, and the cobbles creaked beneath our boots as we reached the first stop.

I spoke clearly, as I once did instructing a shift before starting the machinesprecise, without flourish. I showed photographs of the old market square, described how horses pulled the wagons along the rails, and how boys tossed stones to make the wheels ring. At the former fire hydrant I unfolded a large tablet displaying the scanned card Norris had lent. Mr. Tolchakev gasped, the secretary filmed a short clip, and the schoolchildren begged to hold the tablet. For the first time in weeks I heard someone whisper to their neighbour, Could it be true? That murmur rang louder than any applause.

After the twohour stroll we gathered at the finish point, shared hot tea from a thermos, and I placed a box for comments on the litter bin lid. People dropped coins, notes, and phone numbers. The city secretary, without pretense, said, The council would like to thank you and consider adding the route to the official spring schedule, provided you submit the paperwork. I nodded, noting silently that the administration had spoken of we instead of you. I slipped the business card into my inner pocket, next to the envelope.

That night, after removing my boots on the mat, I counted the takings: fifteen pounds, exactly. Not a fortune, but enough for broadband and a few bills. The newspaper lying under the kettle, a headline about support for those nearing pension, now seemed less threatening. I opened my notebook and wrote, Next investigation the 1913 ironbridge washed away by flood. A sliver of light from the streetlamp painted the snow outside, and the town breathed quietly, without grand speeches, yet there was a place for me in that breath.

Two days later I delivered a packet to the councilroute sheets, copies of the archival documents, and a letter offering a short seminar for municipal guides. The secretary looked surprised but took the papers. As I left, I paused at the notice board; a fresh flyer proclaimed Spring Festival of Street Walks slated for March. I imagined the thirtyeight steps from the board to the former depot, the same number of strides I once took from the lathe to the workshop window. The body remembers distances even when the map changes.

Before sleep, I took the original photograph from the envelope, held it up under the desk lamp, and slipped it into a plastic sleeve. I hung a town map on the wall, marking with a tiny pin the spots still waiting for a story. No clanking machines filled the room, only the soft rustle of snow against the window. I left the lamp on as a nightlight, its mottled glow settling on the map. The route, like the town itself, kept moving onward.