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    They stood and watched brass bands congregate at a car park in the shade of the railway viaduct. Chartered coaches and minibuses were arrayed in row upon row, their drivers in huddles, shaking off fatigue over a flask and a fag. Bandsmen were in stages of undress, vests visible between brass buttons, their gleaming instruments sat in cases on the gravel. Spot-checks and impromptu rehearsals were afoot, and the grainy ululation of bagpipes , emanating from one lone clan in kilts, rose above the parps of brass. The scale and seeming import of the day began to get its hooks into John – so many souls, ebulliently certain of why they were gathered.
    ‘How, there’s my team owa there.’ Alec steered him toward a set of bandsmen congregated round the banner of Langley Park Colliery that several pairs of hands were carefully unrolling. John gave his firmest handshake to each man and woman, and his granddad accepted a bottle of beer – this at nine-thirty in the morning. As John rehearsed his surprise, Alec decanted half the beer into a Tupperware tooth-mug and handed this to John with a wink, before treating himself to a healthy swig from the lips of the pint bottle. John sipped cautiously at the sharp-tasting froth, and found it not unpleasant.
    They moved off en masse through Durham’s narrow streets, crossing the Wear by the broad Framwellgate Bridge, and climbing the steep cobbled Silver Street to congregate in Market Place square. John was mutely stunned, Alec a shade wistful. ‘It’s canny, but it’s not what it was. Should have seen it thirty year ago.’
    Kicking his heels as others made busy, John found himself for the first time making close inspection of the square’s main statue, a huge impassive hussar rearing on horseback, plated with copper of a greenish corroded hue. The engraving identified CHARLES WILLIAM VANE STEWART, MARQUESS OF LONDONDERRY .
    ‘You admiring his lordship?’ Alec was at John’s shoulder, sou-rfaced . ‘If he could step down off of there I’d knock his block off. Biggest and worst mine-owner in all Durham, that one. Eh, Hughie?’
    By Alec’s side was a rheumy-eyed old fellow wearing a dark Crombie overcoat in defiance of the sun. ‘Londonderry?’ the old fellow responded. ‘Aw aye. If he were still about the day he’d be packing this un off doon the bloody pit.’ And with gnarled fingers Hughie rattled John’s shoulder.
    All around men had begun shouting, clapping and calling to order. Trumpets were being raised to lips, drums strapped onto chests, banners lofted and marchers arrayed. Two of Alec’s comrades lifted poles, their wives clutched the stabilising ropes, and the name of Langley Park was hoisted high. John peered all about him at a tide of Durham place names, thirty or more, festooned in many colours. Langley Park was decorated with a painting of the ‘Sam Watson Rest Home’. Other banners offered multiple portraits of whiskered and sober-suited gents, presumably local heroes – John counted half a dozen images of one Keir Hardie. Some favoured uplifting exhortations: ‘Unity is Strength’, ‘Workers of the World Unite!’ John was more taken by the biblical scenes on display : East Hetton Lodge, adorned with a vivid storybook painting of the Good Samaritan stooping to tend the unfortunate traveller, underscored by the legend ‘Go Thou And Do Likewise’.
    The march began as a short but congested journey down the hill. Soon it was obvious to John that progress would be hopelessly slow. The old snaking streets were crammed with bodies. As they shuffled, John took care not to tread into groups of men sat by the kerbside in shirtsleeves, nursing cans and bottles, calling out merrily. The ale had worked a little magic on his own spirits . He sensed a breakaway of some bodies moving up Saddler Street in the direction of the Palace Green.
    ‘Are we going to the Cathedral?’ he asked Alec.
    ‘Nah, son, we’re for the racecourse. Some do, later on.