Back To The Quayside

For the past decade or so the boys and I have visited the Quayside Market at least once a month.  It’s a regular Sunday outing to get the bus, or metro, down to town, walk down Dean Street to the Guildhall and along through the stalls, the get a Q-bus back up the hill.  In normal times the stalls stretch in a double row from the Swing Bridge to beyond the Law Courts almost as far as the Millennium Bridge.  Sometimes it gets so crowded and slow moving in the alley between the stalls I get claustrophobic and have to burst through to the road; fortunately this is closed to all traffic bar the Q-bus and bicycles on Sundays.

When my dear, now late, friend Paula’s cancer returned I made myself a vow to write to her regularly so she would know she was never forgotten.  She liked to hear what the boys were doing so letters often had descriptions of our trips to the Quayside and the characters we encountered.  These included the Campburgervanman, the Scousedoughnutbloke, the Sweetielady, the Chinastallwoman, the SecondhandDVDman and the Venezuelan Deli Churro couple.  Most of these people know my boys by name, and most probably refer to me as Ferretfinger’s mum.  They’ve watched them grow up, and me grow grey.

Due to circumstances beyond my control we haven’t been to the Quayside since January and this present unpleasantness closed the Market down until the week before last.

On Friday Ferretfingers announced “Quayside Market on Sunday” and I agreed.

He, Thunderthighs and I masked up, left the house at 11 am and got the bus to Blackett Street. 

Town was quiet but not deserted.  We strolled down Dene Street, stopping occasionally to seek out The Observer (Ferretfingers had the chitty):  none of the little newsagents on Dene Street had any Sunday newspapers in.

There was a single line of stalls backing onto the river, with a one way pedestrian system in operation and a staffed hand-sanitation-station at both ends.  I loved it.  There was plenty of room and it was really easy to get past those people who walk at one mile an hour. 

Ferretfingers got himself a protective cover for his newest tablet.

We visited the Sweetielady and the boys selected 3 bags each at £5 for 6.

She asked how it had been. 

“Strange.”

“Yes it has been strange” she replied “Strange when we weren’t going out, and now strange that we are.”

She explained that for the next month or so the Market would be operating with only half the usual stalls and stallholders coming in on alternate weeks.             There will still be a Market but the Quayside won’t be as packed and crowd control will be easier.

Sadly the Campburgervanman wasn’t there so the boys missed out on their giant hotdog and cheese-burger and chips.

But the Deli Churro van was there with its Venezuelan flag fluttering in the breeze. 

We “Hola”d each other joyfully, exclaimed how long it had been and I told them about the broken ankle. 

We got our usual order of 12 delimix, a cup of coffee, can of Pepsi Max and bottle of still water, exchanged “Gracias” and “De nada” and goodbyes and “see you soon”.

The boys and I sat on the Law Court steps where I dunked my share of the chocolate and caramel covered deli churros in my coffee and the boys chomped their way through theirs.  Maybe it was the length of time since I last had one but I don’t think they’ve ever tasted so delicious before. 

Crisp and sweet and soft in perfect proportion.

I looked out over the stalls and the river shining in the sunshine and wondered what Paula would have made of it all.