June 2016 – Page 3 – In Search of my Yorkshire Roots

Month: June 2016 (page 3 of 3)

Out and About

13th June 2016 / hmcreativelady / 0 Comments

As usual I did quite well with the jet-lag, being so excited about being in England that I hardly was aware of the 8 hour time difference. I woke up at 1 a.m. Then again at 3 a.m. and finally at 10:15 a.m! My new address is Hebble End. Hebble means a plank bridge. So Salterhebble, which I intend to visit was built by a man who dealt in salts and dye wares. See HebdenBridgehistory.org.uk. Note to self: History society meets alternate Wednesdays in the Methodist church hall.

A day of two halves – the first exploring my immediate environment of Hebden Bridge and the second taking a bus trip to Halifax. Walking along the canal into the center of the town – all of five minutes – was very pretty, even in the pouring rain. When I reached the shops it soon became apparent that the devastating flood here on Dec 26, 2015, was still having a major impact on life here. Lloyds bank had a temporary floor and the whole building was covered in scaffolding. My two possible pin numbers didn’t work and so they were going to have to send me a new pin number by snail mail. Really?? (In the end it took one day short of 4 weeks to obtain one!!) Each block had major reconstruction going on. The library basement is still out of bounds. I wonder if they were able to salvage documents.The flood must have brought a lot of work to the town. Every block had hammering and other construction noises issuing from the dark interiors. Sand bags were still strewn around the streets.

Paying with my credit card, despite its chip and pin still required the checkout guy at the Coop to ask for my ID! I had a cup of coffee outdoors, the only problem being the constant drop of wet blossoms into my cappuccino. Things are looking up in England. When I asked for a decaf cappuccino the barista didn’t bat an eyelid. The bookstore (with its marker at my head height showing the height of the flood waters) had a new Bill Bryson and a new Karl Pilkington book. I picked up as many brochures as possible from the Information Bureau.

Next stop was the Co-op to gather essentials such as food and shampoo. Failing miserably to prise the top off the soup I had just bought for lunch I was reduced to eating a sausage roll and a piece of caramel shortbread. I was flagging by this time so I took a nap. Not bad considering yesterday’s 24 journey and 8 hours of jet-lag. Waking up – what to do? I looked out of the window onto the canal: good weather for ducks. It was pouring down so I caught the bus to Halifax which gave me a chance to sit down for half an hour and watch the scenery pass me by. Donkeys, sheep and the occasional cow peered serenely as the bus careered at a break-neck speed through winding streets lined with parked cars. I visited Halifax Minster were many of my ancestors were baptized and married. I passed the end of Gaol Lane and Black Ledge where family members had once lived.

I took a walk down to Halifax minster, but as I suspected it was closed. My plan was to get back to HB for a quick dinner before going to the HB Picure house, 2 minutes away from ‘my’ mill but I was thwarted when the next bus bak wasn’t for 45 minutes. OK, I thought, no problem, I’ll just eat in Halifax. No way! By 5 p.m. the whole place was closed up – a veritable ghost town. so I went back t’th’mill, heated up my shepherd’s pie from the Co-op and at 8:40 headed back into town. I ended the day sitting at The Old Gate again, simply because it was the only familiar place in town, this time sipping Old Goat cider. It was much quieter tonight. They have 40 ales and ciders on tap so I had some cider samples and ordered their Old Goat cider – a perfect accompaniment for writing my journal for an hour or so.

: Black Edge Street

: My walk into town. The big stone building is ‘my mill.’

Arrival

12th June 2016 / hmcreativelady / 0 Comments

June 12

So here I am tucked up in bed in a former dye mill, stone built in the 1800’s. It’s fitting that I’m spending a month living in a renovated mill since the ancestors that I’m researching were all woollen workers – first of all in the home and later, with the onflux of the Industrial Revolution in the mills themselves. My great great grandfather, Ishmael Nutton died at the age of 39 leaving a wife and three young children. The cause of death given on the death certificate is ‘Blood poisoning from sorting Alpaca wool. Exhaustion.’ Apparently the fibers of the alpaca were much finer than sheep’s wool and could be inhaled by the workers, causing abrasions to the lungs, rather like the results of exposer to asbestos. To avoid the problem workers were told to grow long mustaches to filter the fine hairs and prevent them from being inhaled!

My room

It’s been an eventful two days of travel. I set off from home at 8 a.m. on Saturday. Alice had offered to drive me to SFO. I changed planes in Toronto – the ipad airport! – and landed in Manchester where it was trying – desperately – to rain. Thwarted in my search for a toasted tea cake I settled for a paper cup of tea from Greggs while I reassembled my bags. My ‘carry-on’ roller bag had been deemed not carry-on-able by Air Canada so I’d had to have it stowed. We were eventually reunited in Manchester but I must admit I was concerned about the fate of my lap-top and my other “essentials.” I mean, that’s why I’d chosen to put them into my carry-on, so that they would remain in sight at all times.

With the wonderful help of a Welsh information desk clerk and a young Indian who ran the check-out at W. H. Smith’s within 45 minutes they had figured out how to insert a new Sim card into my phone. I told them they both deserved extra Brownie points.

At the rail terminal it took longer to be issued with a train ticket to Hebden Bridge than it had done to get through security. Unfortunately I had to change stations in Manchester, a hassle I’d done with Rachel last year. I had no problems finding willing guys to help with my bags whenever I needed a strong arm. All I just needed to do was ask. And I feel that that’s what I’ve been doing all day – something that I’m always reticent to do at home, but it’s certainly paid off today.

Manchester was packed with Parklife Fest teens many of whom were wearing very little at all – and carrying open bottles of wine and beer on the Metro-link and the trains.I chatted to a group of girls who were squashed against me like sardines in a can. I was told it was “all ‘appnin’ ” at Heaton Park. 70,000 fans were expected during the weekend causing disruption to public transport.

I had intended walking from the railway station to Canal Works but soon realized that a combination of cobble stones, mud and puddles were not conducive for rolling two roller bags for half a mile, so I called for a taxi. But the driver couldn’t find Hebble End so I called Paula and she arrived, brolly beclad, to collect me from that bastion of British consumerism, the Co-op. It was a walk of one minute along the canal tow path to my new home. There I met with Chris and Paula and the arrangements were explained to me over a welcoming cup of Yorkshire tea. Within 20 minutes they were offereing to do a house exchange with me! The room that I had signed up to rent through AirBnB was in Paula and Beccie’s apartment but their next door neighbour, Chris, had offered to house me since I was staying for a whole month. The major differences were that my room in Chris’s apartment didn’t have a window, and there was no TV in my room, but I did have my own bathroom.

After unpacking I took a walk in the rain along the tow path directly outside the factory. It was slippery and muddy underfoot. I passed several families of ducks and geese with young duckling and goslings. There was even a blue heron. It was very quiet in a relaxing sort of way – Andante tranquillo. I passed a few other people, walking in the rain on this late Sunday afternoon. The only worries I had were 1. My battery would fail on my iphone and 2. I’d slip on the muddy cobbles and fall into the canal.

Stubbings Wharf pub was already buzzing and when I went in to peruse the menu I found it was already fully booked for the evening, even though it was only 5:15. So for dinner Paula recommended the Old Gate pub which was very much alive and kicking. Until the disastrous flood on Boxing Day 2015 there were 10 pubs in town – far fewer now: tug boats are still dredging the canal. I was looking for somewhere quiet where I could possibly find a dark nook hidden away and write my journal and eat some delicious food. By no means can this spot be described as quiet but I find that rhubarb cider is delicious and is excellent when combined with a ‘Fish Butty and Chips.’

View from the tow path

If I stop for a moment to contemplate it all feels a bit surreal but I’ve always found that – with a combination of jet-lag and a return to my old culture. The Queen’s 90th birthday celebrations on TV make a stark contrast to the biggest mass shooting in U.S history today in Florida.

Packing

11th June 2016 / hmcreativelady / 0 Comments

June 10

Packing, unpacking, repacking, checking and double checking, not to mention checking in! Just about ready to check out now. All this with the help and enthusiasm of Sarah by my side who somehow managed to make the whole thing fun 🙂

On the Ancestry front I had a wonderful email this morning from Marion, a lady who lives in Burnley – 15 miles away from Hebden Bridge. She is related to Sarah Mortimer, my 5th great grandmother (1740-1782) through her husband’s family. Sarah and her husband, my 5th great grandfather, John Barraclough, were contemporaries of Mozart. Marion agrees that we should meet and do some visiting of our ancestors together. I hope that happens.

I’ve been unable to find out information about gaining access to Wakefield Prison where my great great grandfather, George Gledill, 1837-1889, was held courtesy of Her Majesty Queen Victoria for some years. It’s now England’s top security prison and was originally built in 1594 and now houses a large number of murderers and sex offenders which has led it to be nick-named the Monster Mansion. Charles Bronson is currently secured there. A Mulberry tree in the exercise yard has been linked to the song, ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush.’

Passion flower in my garden today

Last day of teaching for 7 weeks!

10th June 2016 / hmcreativelady / 0 Comments

June 9

The day began with an early morning hike along Rio del Mar beach with a Meetup group. At my house the fog was in. Half a mile away on Mission street it was brilliant sunshine but as I drove along Highway 1 south towards Aptos I reached a dense fog bank, and the rain was drizzling. It’s 10 miles to Rio del Mar. I think nothing of that drive and treat it as a mere hop, skip and a jump. There’s no let up in the houses lining the freeway and so Capitola, Soquel, Aptos become merely an extension of the city of Santa Cruz. As I drove I thought about the number of villages that I would pass in 10 miles of driving in any direction from Hebden Bridge, each village having its own distinctive character, its own market day, its own church with its coffee mornings, lunches, Mothers’ Union. And each village separated by rolling green hills speckled with sheep.

Although this was my final day of teaching for seven weeks and I had to give last minute pep talks to my students who will take their National Guild piano exams next week I found it difficult to concentrate. Instead of seeing fingers playing F major scales minus their B flats I was seeing the menu in the Pack Horse at Affetside, and wondering if Turton Church would be open to step inside for a few quiet minutes. My parents got married there. I was baptized there and married there too, and I know my daughters have often dreamed of getting married there themselves.

Getting back home I began to think about packing for my trip, but first I have to do some laundry!

Hebden Bridge

9th June 2016 / hmcreativelady / 0 Comments

Where in England?

I’m going to be staying in an Airbnb in Hebden Bridge for the first 4 weeks. It’s in Yorkshire – up north (you have to get the accent right to say that proper!)2 excellent BBC series were recently filmed there-Last Tango in Halifax, and Happy Valley. Both are available on Netflix and I highly recommend them. Last Tango actually used my old high school for many of the scenes. I pretty well jumped out of my seat where I saw it appear on the screen. I was there from age 11-18 and spent many an unhappy hour in the headmistress’s study.

9th June 2016

Preparations

June 8

I’ve decided to take a chance and temporarily jump ship, so to speak, from the life I’ve fashioned for myself. Most of us, I suppose, have had at one time or another the impulse to leave behind our daily routines and responsibilities and seek out, temporarily, a new life. That daydream has always retreated from me in the face of reality. But I’ve had a feeling for a while now, as a turn a milestone, that here is a new phase of life, one that I need to embrace, no matter how full of doubts I may be filled with right now. My daughters have graduated from college and are embarking on new adult lives of their own. A voice inside my head calls me with insistence, if I dare to listen to it, Hey, you there! you need to get back to the narrative of your own life. Perhaps if I travel by myself to somewhere unfamiliar where all the labels that define me, both to myself and others are be absent, I could explore a new me. But I wonder about my capacity to be a woman in a place without and identity, without friends. Alone of seven weeks? I have fallen into habit, quite naturally I believe, of defining myself in terms of who I am to other people-I am what others expect me to be -a daughter, wife, mother, teacher, mentor, friend, critic. I’d like to stand back from these roles and make the acquaintance of that new person who emerges.

Now, how many reasons can I think of why I shouldn’t do it? What about my house? Who’s going to feed Tilly? I won’t be generating any income-yikes! Suppose I get sick in some strange place. What if I disappear off the face of the planet? The response from friends has been unanimous. In fact, over the past few months as I’ve wrestled with this dichotomy on hikes through the redwoods, along the coastal buffs and along the beaches of Santa Cruz, in hurried intermissions at concerts and leisurely dinners I’ve come to see who my friends truly are. Go, they say, your children are grown, and Anthony can look after the cat. Some of them tell me in hushed voices that they are secretly envious of my independence.

In planning the adventure some kind of cultural connection with the place I selected was of vital importance and this was easy to find. I would immerse myself in the place of my father’s mother’s family. Since beginning to research my family’s history seven years ago I’ve visited many places connected with my family. But on short visits with my daughters we had time for little more than finding a little moorland village in Lancashire, jumping out of the car to take a photo of the stunningly beautiful church, or take a quick picnic in the local cemetery (yes, one of our favorite pastimes!) or grab a half a shandy and a bag of cheese and onion crisps in the local hostelry. With seven weeks I wanted to wake up to the views my great, great, great grandparents had from their kitchen window, touch the font where 5 generations ago my relatives were baptized and then climb the hill above the village to look down on that church, a view that may not have changed during the last 600 years. Someone recently asked if I was going to England to see members of my family. Only the dead ones, I replied!

In Search of my Yorkshire Roots

hmcreativelady