The first time I stepped foot into Wigan Roller Rink, I was eight years old. My parents, my cousins, my sister, my auntie and uncle, were all there. It was a family day out, and the first thing I remember is bursting into tears when my mum put the quads on my feet. I was absolutely terrified of that imposing wooden rink, covered head to toe in shin pads, wrist guards, knee pads. A cushion for my weak bones and fragile confidence. I was a fairly confident child, so this outburst of tears surprised everybody, myself included. From there onwards, I had a determination to conquer the rink.
I’d return often, ritualistically, in my early teens. An old mill turned escapist outlet. I was literally skating around a symbol of my heritage. Friend group hierarchies would be defined by your ability to use inline skates, popularity dependent on how fast you could turn a corner.
When it came to university, I was surprised that barely anyone knew how to rollerskate, shocked to discover that there wasn’t a roller rink nearby. Returning during the holidays reminded me of those early years. I could skate with inlines, an even rarer skill than it had once been within my social circles. I was to return again, age 20, on a random Monday during the school holidays. I’d heard the rink was closing.
It’s a quiet day. The clientele are mostly grandparents, with respective grandkids, and young friend groups that remind me of my 13 year old self. Seeing the place brings back that same feeling of anxiety: trying to impress, feeling watched, desperately avoiding falling over in front of your crush. I smile to myself, knowing none of that mattered anymore. I could skate today in absence of teen angst.
The first people I chat to are a young couple, Oren and Jordan. It’s only Oren’s second time skating, Jordan’s first. They’re laughing, they aren’t quite getting the hang of it. I’m glad they’ve gotten to experience it before it closes, even if it doesn’t carry the same nostalgia as for the other seasoned skaters I spy on the rink. That’s the thing though, in here, anyone is welcome, no booking needed, a non-judgemental zone where you encounter all sides of the community. Oren and Jordan’s roller rink date will be worth its weight in gold once it’s closed. A common thread of experience I’m sure many attendees reminisce about and remember fondly. I get chatting to Karen on the table opposite me. She’s been coming for a long time.
“I used to come when I were younger, and now I bring my grandchildren.”
I bring up news of the closure. “I feel like we’ve just got the grandchildren into it, and now it’s more difficult to go. Because there is one in Manchester, but you have to book. It’s not really like here where you can just come and skate whenever you feel like it”. The rink’s closure echoes an end to regional rites of passage.
“As a teenager, we used to come in on a Friday night. And I think the grandkids could’ve done that as they were growing up.” This is an end to the collective traditions passed from one generation onto the next, something reflective of the shrinking presence of social hubs for younger generations.
People still care. That’s what I’ve noticed since being back home. As the news has spread amongst friends and family, there’s the same reaction of shock, sadness, nostalgia. The impact is heartfelt, and it goes to show the valuable place it’s had in local’s lives, whether one standout visit or a weekly ritual. Of course there are other rinks, like Karen mentions, but none quite like this one.
The DJ, Cory, is playing a mix of current chart toppers and the classic cheesy anthems I remember on our weekly family visits. My mum would teach me to skate every weekend, we would celebrate our Halloween here, and many of my friends chose it as the place to celebrate their birthday. One year I’d gotten my own pair of light-up quads for my birthday. I wanted skates of my own as opposed to hiring them, a step-up in the skating world.
When I go over and speak to Cory, I learn he’s returned since hearing of the closure.
“It’s been very hard, I’ve come back to chip in whenever I can.” He has his own memories. “I’ve met so many friends, and made so many connections that will last a lifetime.”
The rink’s always been a hub for community events, and Cory mentions the Northern Soul dance event, “Empire All-Nighter”, held there: “It went on from 7 p.m. until 10 a.m. the next day, there was just so much talent on display.” One thing that stuck with me was how he described the rink’s New Year celebrations, “We have everybody, the entire rink, holding hands in a massive circle, just being together and spreading the love.” That sums it up, really.
Since returning, I’ve grown annoyed at myself for not taking advantage of the rink as an adult. It’s housed each phase of my life. The good and bad, the toxic rivalry between friends and nostalgia for my innocence. It’s seen me return from university, and witnessed the beginnings of my adulthood. Melodramatic, I’m aware, but it’s been a formative space for me and plenty of others.
I’m frustrated by the classic tendency to recognise value in something only as it comes to an end. I myself have fallen into this trap, being granted one last bittersweet visit instead of being able to form more carefree rituals here in the next phase of my life. Its closure demonstrates a fragility, both the fragility of memory as we try to relive and remember moments from our past, and the fragility of these spaces within our communities as more and more seem to be disappearing. The demand for them is certainly still there.
This is a relationship that ends in heartbreak, but at least I got the closure I needed. I could say goodbye for a final time, skate at the mill once more, that’s what matters. Go pay that special place from your youth a visit, because it might just be the last chance you get.
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