Don’t bother going to Hamilton they said. How wrong they were.
Sure, there’s empty shops, graffiti, and an abundance of charity shops, but there’s also treasures like Helen Thompson.
I met her in a Cafe. She was reading her newspaper over a quiet cuppa when an older gent approached. The laugh wrinkles around his eyes, and Hamilton drawl, gave him a warm aura. Helen put aside her paper to listen to his detailed description of not only his health, but also what his friends think, and what the nhs have in store for him. Helen told me later that he lost his wife a few months ago. Adjustment is hard. Helen was widowed quite young, raising her children single-handedly and, from the sounds of it, very successfully. She now has grandchildren who are a delight to her. She is in the process of reclaiming her house after a granddaughter lived with her in order to study at university.
Helen does a circuit of her favorite cafes each week. This lovely woman has soft shortish golden hair which catches the eye. She knows a lot about Hamilton, and is a dedicated parishioner. Helen willingly provided directions but clearly I wasn’t listening properly. When she came across me about 1/2 an hour later, in the wrong place, she graciously helped again.
Hamilton used to be bustling in the centre. Further out, an area where the Duke used to ride between his avenue of trees was gifted to the city. The powers-that-be considered what to use those acres for. What do Hamiltonians like to do best? Walking? Biking? Of course! Shopping!
A huge shopping complex rose up, sucking all the larger stores from the town. Smaller shops lost their foot traffic and closed. Unemployment rose. And thus the town centre struggles.
But Hamilton has it’s treasures. A few minutes from the train station is the Old Parish church. My great x 4 grandfather was preceptor here, and my great grandfather was conductor of the choir. And what a church it is! Designed by Adam’s, it is unlike any other I’ve seen. Outside is deeply moving too, with its moss-covered headstones under spreading trees. The kindness of the church’s officer in spending time with me, when I had arrived unannounced, was yet another example of how lovely folk are.
The museum gave the answer as to why my ancestors left Hamilton for New Zealand. As bakers they were not allowed to own a shop, but had to sell their wares at market, subject to the whims of the burgh. Not being able to progress is reason enough to emigrate. They moved to New Zealand, where they soon had their own shop, before moving south to become fishermen, and gold miners. My great x 3 grandmother sewed their sovereigns into the hem of her petticoat and never took it off during the three month boat journey across the globe. No debit cards back then! Did they get warned not to go?
The museum also holds a story worth a giggle:
Speaking of giggles, this statue may please the passersby but as a horse woman I struggle:
At the train station a lass of about 14 was heading into Glasgow. Made up with dark eye liner, extended lashes, nails filed to perfection, and long sweeping hair, she looked striking. Fishnet stocking, high-soled trainers, a white blouse with a frilled ruff just below the shoulder was accented with a black open vest. Her skirt was either satin or leather, wrapped tightly around her midriff, and barely covering her hips. She tried to tell me this was the uniform of the private school she attends. If it is, what do they teach… calculus?
The grandma in me wanted to tell her not to go.
Hamilton; so pleased I took the time.
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