The Boggart and the one legged pigeon.

I worked late last night trying to catch up on things and as a result spent some time with Paula a young lady who worked here several years ago and has come back to answer the phone for a few hours in the evening. I had forgotten how fast she could talk, I got bugger all done of course but I was brought up to date on the last three years of her life and all in two and a half hours.

It was a balmy evening and the sun still shone as I pulled out of the car park to start my journey home. There was little traffic at that time of the day and for once a quite relaxing drive. Being of good mood despite my encounter with the sleeveless one earlier in the day, I decided to take a detour and go the scenic rout. This took me past fields and parks and I realised that I hadn’t sat on a park bench and enjoyed nature’s ambience for years.

I was only five minutes from home as I passed Booth Hall Hospital, which is just across from Bogart Hole Clough, I decided, as this was my last chance of greenery I would stop and enjoy this oasis of nature in a flat and grimy Manchester. I parked my car in the hospital grounds and walked across the road to the clough. In its day this area of Blackley was a Mecca for the posh and well heeled residents who lived in large Victorian houses sat atop the hill overlooking the park.

The clough is so named because of the Boggart – a mischievous imp who is thought to plague with mischief any person who stays in the Clough at night. This legend has never deterred the drug dealers or joy riders who find it an attractive haven for their nefarious activities and can be seen promenading at various times of the day, but mostly at night. I walked the long path that ran parallel with Charlstown road. Eventually I found a bench overlooking a large ravine that boasted a burnt out car and a large park information sign whose message was all but obliterated, apart from the words “Bonga MJ rip is wickid take it out man” scrawled in red paint.

I sat down and wondered what this place must have been like in its hey day. Sadly those times are long gone and what once was picturesque walks, sweeping hills and dells enclosing a placid lake have been replaced by sports areas, cycle paths, tennis courts and of course the famous oil drum collection considered by many to be a form of art. It was quiet and only the sound of a bird coughing every now and again and the odd scream from the hospital across the road broke the silence.

The sun was low over the trees and cast long shadows over a wardrobe and a fridge missing its door, which had been dumped. But the bright orange rays augmented the warm teak of the wood and made bright the shiny bits of the fridge so that they shone like jewels. As I marvelled at this marriage of nature and man a pigeon with a missing leg hobbled past and looked at me accusingly. It stabbed its beak at the ground pointlessly. I had nothing to offer apart from some digestion tablets that were minty with just a hint of fruit; I rummaged in my pocket but before I could get them out the bird had half hopped, half jumped over to the bushes. It’s not easy taking off with only one leg, but it managed it only to flutter to the ground some way away.

It was not my sudden movements that had frightened the bird but the sound of a power saw coming from the old people’s home on Charlestown road. I looked behind me through the trees at the dark gothic building that loomed large on the hill and housed blackley's ancients. The darkening sky was lit with bright orange and red sparks from the power saw which silhouetted the rooftop, every now and again a light as bright as magnesium would illuminate the sky making the chimney pots look like grotesque horses heads. It was rumoured that the inhabitants of this home for the slack bladdered were ringing cars to supplement their meagre pensions. But I couldn’t see it myself, although word on the street was that many a joy rider that dumped a car on the Clough would find it gone if he went back for another spin.

The wind blew gently through the Clough separating blades of grass and worrying fallen leaves into a gentle dance, I decided it was time to go before the cruisers and fallen women arrived to start their nightly business. I walked slowly up the long path that led to the hospital entrance and as I climbed the trunk of a fallen tree that barred my way, I noticed out of the corner of my eye movement in the bushes to my left. I sat on the trunk and waited, there was a glint of something in the undergrowth. I could just make out a pair of eyes watching me. Neither of us moved, it was a battle of wills, my arse had just about gone numb when the eyes flashed and from the bushes emerged a scruffy looking cat with my friend the pigeon in its mouth.

As I crossed the road to return to my car I was almost knocked down by a wild haired lunatic riding one of those mini bikes with the annoying whine who had careered round the corner in a reckless attempt at evading the police car following him. He jumped the pavement and disappeared through the gap in the trees I had used earlier to enter the park. I can only hope that the Boggart got him.