Bonfire night at the Bankfield.
It's funny, growing up how certain places or the people who would have used them seemed from another planet when we were growing up. The bicycle ride through Saltaire, down into Bingley heading out into the Dales early on a Sunday morning. Or in the evening the hectic spin of a training run with the "chain gang"over to to Skipton. Straight from work, we met outside Manningham Park Gates, twenty or so lads, no Lycra or helmets but the best we could afford in quick release wheels and chain sets. In no time we would swoop down past Nab wood and the Bankfield Hotel, sitting majestically in its leafy grounds and out through Keighley, on to Skipton and over the top to Ilkley and back to Bradford.
We were oblivious of the Bankfield or the people who stayed there, they lived another life, a life of 'posh'.
Attending a funeral in the Crematorium the Bankfield seemed the perfect location to stay and as I drove up through the grounds I had a memory flash of all those years ago. Those fine houses in Cottingley which even today seemed so grand, clinging to their gated domain where white haired professional people lived. It was far cry from our terraced, two up and two down with its outside toilet and coal house but as we swept by we didn't care since we were the kings of the road and our world was hemmed in with ignorance.
Entering the Bankfield one enters a rather decadent wood panelled hall, the antithesis of the bright foyer of a modern hotel. The reception desk is to one side with the staff somewhat hidden away behind a petition engaged in other things. The hearty Yorkshire lass who eventually appeared soon set the tone, business like and without the fawning subsequence which is mistaken for service in London, she dispatched me upstairs to find my way through more corridors and more stairs to my room. This is of course Yorkshire where a certain resilience and a get on and do it yourself ethos brings everyone down to the same level.
So here I was the cyclist, the lad on a bike paying my way into 'their' world and discovering, as we always do that there's not much difference ones you've pushed the door open.
I was lucky. Soon to be bonfire night, the hotel had put on a firework display which attracted hundreds of people, mums and dads with their kids, faces happily tuned to the glow and the heat of the bonfire and then the oos and the arrs as the fireworks leapt, whoosh into the black sky setting the darkness alight with pockets of coloured fizz bang
The faces said it all. There is nothing to beat the round good humour of a family orientated section of Yorkshire folk who haven't lost the ability to become kids again and enjoy the simplicity of a traditional night out. Ee Bah Gum.
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