Peter Collier, who now lives in Greenfield Road, Little Sutton, South Wirral, recalls one memory of the tram era THE five-mile single track between Bolton and Walkden, Lancashire, was punctuated at regular intervals by loop lines that served also as tram stops close enough for each to be seen from the next one to it.

Bolton Tramways Department regulations were quite clear: if two trams were stopped facing each other on adjacent loops, the first one to begin to move away from the stop had right of way over the other one.

Now, applied sensibly and courteously, it has always worked well. Even in fog, coded signals were exchanged using foot-operated clangers, giving plenty of warning and avoiding mishaps. But any system is only as good as those who use it, so when poor visibility combined with even poorer relations between belligerent drivers, resulting in a complete absence of any sort of communication between them, the outcome is inescapable.

It just happened to occur in thick fog between Hill Top and Topping's Bridge. Neither driver could see the other, so each clanged a warning before moving on to the single track: contact was aural for several seconds through the murk before it became visual. Standing astride his bicycle, George was suddenly excited by the sound and sight of two 12-ton monsters approaching each other at suicidal speeds in front of his house. Being only eight, however, he didn't quite appreciate the significance fully enough to shout to his mum in the kitchen. She in turn was quite familiar with the noise of "the rattlers" every 10 minutes or so at this time of day, so, as she said later, she wasn't alarmed by what she thought was only one tram in the smog.

The impact, however, left neither of them in any doubt: she didn't even stop to pick up the knife she had dropped on the kitchen floor, but ran to join George outside. The vehicles must have braked hard, because the only damage to either was to their front lamps. The drivers were still standing upright at their controls, white knuckles on the handles, staring at each other, rigid and motionless, their noses almost a foot apart,

Not so, however, the passengers, They were busy picking themselves up from the slatted floor, having slid ever so gracefully onto it from the polished bamboo seats. They were quite used to doing this, albeit more usually sideways into the centre aisle, whenever the tram hit bits of track its bogeys couldn't cope with. But this was different: the most unlikely couples had been thrown together in scenes bearing uncanny resemblances to bitterns wooing. As soon as it was realised what had happened, the silence was broken by violent verbal reactions. Passengers, drivers and conductors began shouting obscenities at each other. The air between them was so saturated with expletives that George's mother pushed him indoors, but he immediately ran out again the back way. Nothing as exciting as this had ever happened outside his house, and he wasn't going to miss a second of it.

Drivers, conductors and passengers paired off as sparring partners, each blaming the other for the melee: each telling the other how it should be resolved: each telling the other where to go. Within minutes they were joined by an inspector from the next tram waiting at Hill Top, but this did nothing to ease matters, because he was immediately regarded by everybody as being on the side from when he had appeared.

Nevertheless, he appealed to each driver in turn, but neither would budge, verbally or physically. Each claimed the other had been abusing the rule for years, and said he would stay where he was for as long as it took.

The temperature suddenly rose even higher when one of the conductors pulled the other's trolley wheel off the wire, and started to run with it in an attempt to face it the opposite way. The other one followed suit, and sparks flew as both trolley bars and conductors collided. As the minutes passed, the older passengers began to return to their seats, out of the cold: some started to turn on their own drivers, and one or two of them even managed to raise a wry smile at their predicament. Then an inspector appeared from the opposite direction, whereupon the colourful descriptions and recriminations and suggestions and accusations and unauthorised signally began all over again. But neither driver was going to back off: complete stalemate had been reached: minds had closed: permanent deadlock reigned paramount. Then something happened.

Out of the fog came a little boy. On his bicycle.

George tugged at the sleeve of one of the inspectors, who at first ignored him. Again he tugged: he'd had enough of this game. It had been exciting at first, but this impasse was boring now.

"What is it, son?" the inspector snapped. He, too, wished it was all over. It was home-time rush-hour, and all his trams were in the wrong place.

As George whispered, the inspector leaned to listen. Gradually his mouth dropped open and his whole face lit up. He ran to the other inspector, repeated what George had said, and together they shouted for the drivers and conductors.

Then they all; swapped trams, swung round the trolleys, and parted, showing only two smashed tail lights as evidence of the incident.

"George: Come back inside this minute!"

His parents never did understand the reason for his demure, self-assured smile as he sat down with them for his tea that day.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.