Category: Uncategorised (Page 8 of 15)

Heather Morris

The weekend had been hot. In fact, for Northern England, specifically Calderdale, it had been a scorcher. Crowds of scantily clad people had descended on Hebden Bridge. Everyone wanted to sit in the sun, so unused are they to seeing this flaming ball high in the sky. Men tore off their shirts. Their skin, used to its normal coating of worsted and waterproofs, rebelled and assumed the colour of boiled lobster.

And STILL they sat in outside, in the full sun, outside the pubs in the town square. The womenfolk, chameleon-like, have shed their epidermis of boots, jeans, jumpers, jackets and beanies, where the only flesh visible is the tip of the proboscis, and now strut about like a tank -topped Barbie in cotton mini and heels. And what heels! Negotiating the cobbles, the stone steps, the pavements ‘under construction’ in these stilts is an art in itself – an art form that many have not yet conquered in the limited amount of sun-time available. Motorcyclists revved their engines at the traffic lights on Bridgegate. Convertibles raced down Crown Street, like cows let out to pasture for the first time after a winter in the barn, only to be halted in their progress by giant purple hippopotamuses, otherwise known as buses, slowly and pedantically negotiating their way around the line of people queuing at the Royd’s ices van, and spilling onto the road like melted 99s.

Faced with this scene from my favourite perch in my new apartment I opted for a weekend out of town. No, not a weekend mini break to some equally packed city but a chance to spend time on the moors above Calderdale. But I decided to spend part of Easter Monday on a trip to Todmorden, 20 minutes by bus, and hunt for houses my ancestors had lived in. I now have over 8000 people in my family tree but Ancestry.com doesn’t provide a way to search your tree by place, so I’ve started to make my own list based on places rather than names. I’d found 8 addresses in Todmorden where my relatives had lived so this seemed a good day for Ancestor Hunting.

My first address was on Pitt Street, a street running at right angles to Burnley Road, on the East side of the town centre. Number 17 had been, in 1891 and 1901, the home of my great great great aunt, Sarah Duckworth, nee Wrigley, and her husband George, a labourer in a cotton mill. They had married in 1873 at Heptonstall church, on April the 12th. I wondered, idly, if it had been such a warm day as today for their wedding. George had been born in Rawtenstall in Lancashire, one of my mum’s favourite place for a ‘run out’ in the car and I’d been there with Rachel on our famous, or should I say, infamous, Irwell valley sculpture trail! The stone terrace was typical of the mill workers’ houses. Part of the terrace has been demolished, number 17 having gone, but as I paused to take a photo of the street sign a man came out of the first house. I told him my story and he related to me the story of a young child who, in 1963, disappeared from outside her home, number 1, and was found much later beneath the ice in the frozen canal. The canal is close to Pitt Street but she couldn’t have walked so far by herself. Perhaps I can find the story in a local newspaper.

A couple of streets away was Derby Street where the Duckworths were living in 1881 prior to their move to Pitt Street. The houses were identical but I did notice that from their back yards there was a good view of Stoodley Pike. Derby Street led to Russell Street which has been completely rebuilt. In 1881 Eliza Wrigley, my first cousin 4 times removed was a cotton weaver. She’d been born in Hebden Bridge and baptized in Heptonstall. Now, at the age of 33 she was living with her cousin, John Bowden, a warehouse man, and his wife, Mary, a sticker of pieces.

The next street was Back Der Street where Eliza had moved to and was living in 1891, 1901, with her cousin Mary. Probably John had died. Mary is now a charwoman, a drop in status, but at 60 she’d probably had enough of mill work. I’d presumed at Back Der Street would have been a back-to-back house with Der Street, but no, the houses on both streets have both front and back doors. Derlane Mill was at the bottom of the street. 1911 sees Eliza, still single, living alone at 9 Der Street and her occupation is a cotton hank winder. She died two years later.

Derdale Mill, built in 1861, was another attempt at co-operative manufacturing under the management of the Todmorden (Derdale) Cotton and Commercial Company. The rearing party was held in April 1862, but by November 1869, the Company was bankrupt. The shareholders held an extraordinary general meeting in Sobriety Hall where it was resolved to wind up the concern. This was probably as a direct result of the Cotton Panic caused by the American Civil War, resulting in a severe downturn in trade for all cotton manufacturing businesses. On 9th February 1870, Caleb Hoyle and Henry Maden of Rockcliffe House, Bacup, purchased the mill for £9,120. The mill was safe, and continued in the production of textiles until about 1996.

The next place on my list was (number deleted for privacy) Thorn Place. I had to cross the Rochdale Canal to get to Kilnhirst Road.

I’d never been to this part of Todmorden before, under Stoodley Pike. It’s quite lovely – away from the busy Burnley Road, and very green and leafy. I was in search of the home of Ethel feel, nee Wrigley, who lived there from 1930 until her death in 1963. At first I couldn’t find the street. A street sign seemed to be quite misleading, taking me to the back door, but two helpful window cleaners came to my rescue. I told them my story and they asked if I was looking for a part in a play. ??? Apparently a ‘high up man at the Todmorden Hippodrome” lives in Thorn Place. They encouraged me to knock on the door on number 1 telling me that they knew which numbers had ‘nice people’ behind them – and which didn’t! The lowest house on the steep slope was built by the builder of the rest of the terrace, after he had completed his street. I eventually located the front of the street all of which had large front garden, unlike the mill workers’ cottages on Pitt and Derby street. This was obviously a step up. The garden looked lovely on this sunny day, and the front door was slightly ajar. I was grateful for the advice the window cleaners had given me asI called “Hello” and knocked on the door. A lady appeared and on telling my story she immediately invited me in. The interior decor felt as if it was something from a stage set. It was a lovely period piece with all the trimmings of the fireplace, the bay window, anaglypta, cornices and picture rail. She told me that the house had been built around 1910 and she’d lived in it for 20 years. Coming from the streets around Pitt and Der it had indeed been a step up. Her mother, who had lived next door may have known Ethel Seel, and she’d contact me if so. Ethel, my 3rd cousin, 2x removed, had been born in 1898 in Hebden Bridge. Her mother, who died when Ethel was 6, had been buried at Crosslanes Chapel. Aged 24 she married Gilbert Riley Steel, a bank clerk, at Cross Lanes chapel. I have other Wrigley ancestors buried there. They had one daughter, Elinor M. and Ethel was buried at Christ Church, Todmorden Jan 3, 1964.

Heading towards the town I passed Myrtle Street, Dale Street, Brook Street and Roomfield Lane where other ancestors lived but where the actual terraces have been demolished. Returning to Hebden Bridge the annual duck race had just finished – a fundraiser where you pay for a plastic duck and then all the ducks are thrown into Hebden Water and the first duck to reach the finish line wins the lucky owner a trip to somewhere or other! Crowds of people were heading to find the nearest pint after all that excitement in the sun. I headed back to my place and viewed it all from my eyrie while sipping a nice cup of Darjeeling.

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Update: I did, in fact, find newspaper references to the the little girl who went missing:

Snow Hampers Hunt

Todmorden Times Feb15,  1969

 Police mounted a massive house-to-house check in Todmorden to-day in an effort to trace three-year old Dawn Fielder missing from her Derby Street home since Thursday afternoon. More than 100 men and women from the West Yorkshire police reported to Todmorden police station early to-day. Scores of civilians from a wide area around Todmorden were calling at the Burnley Road station to day to offer their services. More than five inches of snow fell during the night and the whole area is now covered with a thick blanket of snow. “The snow has made things difficult.” said a senior police officer to-day. ” But we shall continue to use parties of volunteers to go over the whole area again.” Throughout yesterday and last night the control centre at Todmorden was kept busy dealing with reports that Dawn had been seen. But checks have failed to confirm any reports Dawn was last seen in Pitt Street, just 40 yards from her home, at 4 o’clock on Thursday by her grandfather, Mr. Fred Harcourt.

Feb 17

Dawn The search for three years-old Dawn Louis Fielder, who has bees missing since Thursday from her home In Russel Street, Todmorden, was resumed to-day. More than 100 strong volunteers and police—set off early to-day to mane the search. Some will concentrate on house -to – house inquiries, while others check the banks of the hale-long canal which runs through the centre of Todmorden. A police spokesman at Todmorden said to-day: “The searcher are keen and we are still hoping the girl will be found alive.” The spokesman said they were unable to use police skin-divers to search the canal because of a four-inch thick layer of ice.

March 6

MISSING GIRL, 3, DEAD IN CANAL Three – year – old Dawn Fielder, who has been missing since February 13, was found dead yesterday in a canal 200 yards from her home at Todmorden, Yorks. Police said last night that crime is not suspected.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to cope with this weekend. It ‘s the anniversary of my mum’s death, nine years ago, and I had planned to participate in an alumni weekend at Sheffield University. I’d gone last year and had thoroughly enjoyed the Music department’s alumni get together of rehearsals, meals and good conversation culminating in my participation in a wonderful concert in Firth Hall, scene of my graduation ceremony. But a couple of weeks ago I got word that the weekend’s events had been cancelled – so what to do?

Last year on April 6th I had surprised myself by setting out from my apartment to go to the Coop in town to buy some pasta, and had somehow found myself climbing up to Stoodley Pike. 8 miles later I did, in fact, call in at the Coop for some pasta. I had decided on that rather strenuous hike that I would celebrate my mum’s life each year by going on a hike.

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Now my mum loved taffies, as she affectionately called the, and she was never prouder than when her daffies in her font garden in Tottington came in to flower, so I decided it would be very appropriate to go a ‘Daffy Hike.’ Fortunately it was a glorious sunny day and I decided to re-travel my steps through the Colden Valley, a walk I’d first done last Autumn when the fall colors were at their height. I had ancestors that lived at Hudson Mill so I took the bus to New Delight and retraced my steps in search of some daffodils. I certainly wasn’t disappointed and found lots of flowers seemingly planted at random along the old pack horse trail or scattered like yellow stars in the woods lining the track. High above Jack bridge I stopped to watch a couple of hikers crossing the narrow slab bridge and thought that next time it would be fun to be on the far side of the Colden Beck. The path was lined by trees and stumped that were covered in a feathery almost neon green moss that was so long it gently wafter in the little breeze. It reminded me of something from a Tolkien story, As I grew close to the two chimneys of Lumb Mill I decided to go and have a closer look. I was able to get right up to the base of the towering chimneys and even reach out to touch them. There’s a lot of building work being done there. It looks like a sizable house is under construction in the remains of the former mill. There were several picturesque bridges and fantastically shaped trees, and even a large spider’s web that was half concealed under a bridge.

Reaching Mytholm I took a wander around St James’s churchyard, where many of the graves were bedecked in lots of daffodils in pots and jam jars.

Sunday dawned dull and dreary and although I had planned to possibly go on a guided walk about transportation in Sowerby Bridge the overcast morning didn’t inspire me to get up and go. So I settled for a while, engrossed in Enduring Love by Ian McEwan which I’d begun yesterday, and found was a real page turner. However, by 1 o’clock the sun was shining and I had itchy feet to be out and about. I got the bus to Blackshaw Head and headed along Davy Lane, a new path for me, so one I would mark on my OS map in pink when I got home. Blackshaw Head, as its name suggests is perched on t’tops and so I had extensive view in all directions. I could see Pry Farm and Scammerton Farm where some of my ancestors had lived and one, Giles Sunderland, had left the farm in during World War 1, never to return.

I passed by lots of newborn lambs. It’s usual for sheep here to give birth to twins, but occasionally triplets will be born. Next into view across the valley was a field of alpacas – yes, alpacas. You can take an alpaca trail – that might be fun!

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Next came Great Rock – hmm, that’s its name. It’s a huge single boulder of granite. On bonfire night I came to Great Rock farm from where I could see other bonfires across the valley, but it was totally dark and I didn’t quite know where Great rock itself stood, but now I found it. Of course it’s covered in graffiti because it’s close to the road, but at least it’s antique etched graffiti rather than spray painted. I was enjoying being on t’tops so rather than take the track down to Eastwood I continued along the top road. I one point it dropped down sharply to cross a stream, then climbed up again. I could just see the top of Cross Stones church where I have ancestors buried. I’d only been on this moor once before (apart from bonfire night) and the views are fantastic, right across to Stoodley Pike. I could clearly pick out the trail that we’d used when my daughters came to see me last May.

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Eventually I came to Martin’s Lane, marked on the map as a Public Bridleway and it was very well maintained as it led down towards the Calder Valley. I was most surprised when I came to the back of a large building with three arched doorways, now closed with iron doors but it looked very much like a church. Sure enough as I rounded the corner and the front of the building came into view I could see the house name was Chapel House. A man was gardening and I asked him about the building. apparently the first chapel on the site was built,t in 1707 but this one dates from the 1890’s. At various times it’s been both a Quaker and a Methodist chapel. But who attended? I was halfway up a hillside with no – I mean no – buildings around. Hmmmm. Something for a rainy day’s research!

The bridleway petered out at the chapel but the man assured me that the narrow track in front of me continued down into the valley. Oh, but my. it was soooo steep. I edged my way very slowly being careful not to slip on the loose stones. At one point there was a small memorial garden just off the path with several Bury Football Club scarves wrapped around the overhanging tree. Just below the site was the railway line and the path regained the main road by way of a tunnel underneath the track. I had planned to get the bus back to Hebden but I was so enjoying my adventure that I decided to walk back to Hebden Bridge by way of the canal towpath. It took me a little while to figure out an access point for for a little while I was on the far side of the canal but I was able to cross a bridge in Eastwood and returned to Hebden along the towpath. It was so warm that I had to take off my jacket for the remainder of the walk home, around 3 miles. When I reached the Coop where I’d planned on buying something for dinner greeter at the door informed me that they were closing in line one minute – at 5 o’clock.

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5 miles yesterday, 6 miles today.

Last weekend it was the Ted Hughes festival. I’d signed up to attend events on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. It was my twin daughters’ birthday too, and I thought this would be a good way to celebrate . . . . I’d purchased two tickets for the poetry reading on Friday evening but at the last minute the friend who was to attend with me couldn’t make it. I advertised the ticket on Hebden Bridge’s facebook and it was quickly purchased. The reading was to take place in Hope Chapel, literally the next building to where I live, and one that my Wrigley ancestors had had a hand in renovating – but that’s another story. I met my companion for the event on the steps of the chapel and we decided to sit on the balcony. The downstairs area was pretty full but there were only a dozen or so people upstairs to enjoy readings by Ted Hughes’s daughter, Frieda, and one of my favourite writers, Simon Armitage who I had met at Haworth Parsonage last year. Listen to Simon reading ‘Thankyou for Waiting’ with which he opened his reading.

 

Frieda was on first, introduced by a member of the Elmet Trust who demonstrated as much pizzazz at introducing the evening’s edification as the squashed spider outside my kitchen window. Luckily, my escort had a great sense of humour, and I related how, on attending a meeting with the Elmet Trust with Sarah I had been told to ‘wash out my mouth’ on mentioning something about the Bronte family (and it wasn’t said in jest!).

One poem that Frieda gave a special introduction to was ‘The San Francisco Fire’ which she commented that she still finds it difficult to read without a surfeit of emotion. The poem tells of her attending a 49ers game in San Francisco on the day of the Oakland  Fire, October 20th, 1991, and realising that, as the ash fell, she realised that many of the spectators would discover that their house had been burned down in the fire. It was highly significant day in my family too. It was Rachel and Sarah’s 6th birthday and we’d arranged for a magician to entertain at the party we were hosting that afternoon at our home in  Walnut Creek. During the morning, however, the house where the magician had been doing a similar party had had to be evacuated in the fire and his box of magic tricks had literally gone up in smoke – not a day to forget, though we were decidedly fortunate compared to many people. After the reading I asked Frieda to dedicate the poem to my daughters in honour of their birthday – the following day. Simon’s selection of poems was more upbeat than the ones he had chosen for the Haworth reading, and his super-droll reading of Poundland was hilarious. By the time I left I was animated and inspired by meeting and chatting to Frieda, the daughter of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. She seemed very approachable and easy to talk to.

The following day I took a tour of Ted Hughes’s birthplace. It seemed pretty amazing to me that I could walk from my apartment to the house in Mytholmroyd where England’s poet laureate  (from 1984-his death in 1998) was born. I’d visited the house before but hadn’t been inside. In 2008  it was purchased and turned into a bed and breakfast. Rachel and I had thought about staying there a couple of years ago but we decided to stay in the Old Dairy in Heptonstall instead. Simon Armitage, as president of the Elmet Trust, had presided at the opening ceremony. This time I, along with 5 other ladies, got the whole tour of this tiny three storey house with outside ginnel, where next door’s washing was on the outside line. I found it rather uncanny to hear a recording of Hughes himself reading a poem about the room we were sitting in. We were able to see the view from his room of Scout Rock, and see the site of Zion chapel which dominated the street, cutting out all light from Ted’s window.

He lived there until he was 8. His father was a carpenter for a building company in Hebden Bridge. My ear perked up. Could he have worked for my Wrigley forefathers? They had the largest construction company in Hebden Bridge. I read  previously  that Ted’s mum was a Farrar from Heptontall. I too, have Farrar ancestors from Heptonstall! The visit made  me eager to read about Hughes’s life. His father had fought both at Ypres and Gallipolli and suffered from PTSD. The centenary of the end of WWl is coming up in November and there is a tremendous amount of work being done in Calderdale and beyond to commemorate the local  fallen soldiers. I have knitted scores of poppies which will be added thousands of others and form a perimeter to Lister Lane cemetery in Halifax. My own grandfather took his own life after returning from Belgium, when my mum was only 13. Giles Sunderland, one of my distant ancestors died in France in 1916.

The next day had been forecast for rain but it was dry when I set off, again to Mytholmroyd, to take a guided tour of places that Ted Hughes wrote about in his poetry. The guides were two members of the Elmet Trust who Sarah and I had met before. It was advertised as a 4 hour walk, bring lunch and wear boots. That was about it. For the first hour and a half we strolled leisurely along the canal, seeing the imposing Southside house where one of Ted’s uncles had lived, the spot where Ted and friends used to fish close to the long tunnel (where marks  showed where the horses’ ropes had worn away the stone), again visiting the house (just the downstairs) and the site of Zion chapel. At each stop our guides read excerpts from Ted’s poems and showed old photos about the particular places. One photo was a  class picture of Ted at Burnley Road junior school – built by my Wrigley ancestor yet again!

Then we headed up. Up. Up and more up – almost vertically through Red Acre wood where the site of Ted’s various camping trips were pointed out to us. It had begun the drizzle slightly, but I found this sort of weather much more evocative than had it been a bright sunny day. But . .  . and this is where I feel the guides needed some guidance. They set a very, very fast pace up the hillside, stopping for our lunch break with a great view of  Mytholmroyd sewage works!

There seemed little regard for the pace of the group, and it was virtually impossible to stop to take photos. I inquired how much further to walk, how much longer the walk would last for. Neither question could be answered by the ‘sweeper’ and the guides were mere specs in the distance a hundred feet above us. This was the point of no return so, with a rehearsal back in Hebden looming, I headed back down to the valley. I arrived back ten minutes before the planned finish time of the guided hike. I wonder what time the rest of the group got back!

Three days later I went into my favourite quilting supply store in Halifax. I got chatting to the assistant about a project I’m working on – Hardcastle Crags. “Ah, I live close by,” she said, “in Heptonstall.” We swapped stories and business cards! She and her brother used to take things to be repaired by a clogger who lived at Lily Hall in the mid to late 1960’s. She used to swim in the mill pond at Hardcastle Crags – where, according to an article in the newspaper,  a former young resident of Lily Hall had drowned. And then she said “And I went to school with Frieda Hughes.” She described how they would make cardboard swords together and pretend to be pirates. Her parents (or grandparents had also known the Hughes family in Mexborough, where they moved to when Ted was 8). Ted wrote two poems about local Heptonstall characters, ‘Granny Riley’ and ‘Donald Straight Up’. The assistant has some family heirlooms given to her by the daughter of these two, and she intends to pass all this information on to Frieda, who might be unaware that these two were real Heptonstall village characters.

From the quilting store I went for a coffee to read the next chapter in the book I began reading this morning – Nimrod: the story of Ernest Shackleton’s Antarctic expedition. I’d visited a pub in Ireland lined with photos about his expedition. However, I’d never connected the name Shackleton with Yorkshire until the book recounted how, 4 generations before Ernest, the Shackletons had moved to Ireland from Yorkshire. When I explored Eastwood a couple of weeks ago I’d been given a tour of the little hamlet by John Shackleton. There’s a prominent hill above the Calder valley called Shackleton.  . .  . another connection that might provide interest on a dark damp evening in Hebden Bridge!

 

 

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Visit to Heptonstall where we  explored the church, paid homage to Sylvia Plath, had lunch in the White Lion and walked home the long way via Slack Bottom. The day finished with a performance by Ursula Martinez and then a night cap in the White Lion

Saturday morning was spent at the Mytholmroyd Gala. I’ve been involved in a research project, funded by Manchester University, to find out if the rural areas of Calderdale are age friendly. Part of the project was to take photos depicting snippets of life in  this area that involve people over the age of 60. 4 of my photographs were selected for the exhibition which will now go on tour of the area.  The results of the research were presented at the International Festival of Public Health.

In the evening my song Lily Hall was given its first performance by a local choir which I accompany.

On Sunday as part of Halifax Minster’s Summer Festival people were invited to join the choristers and participate in the singing of choral evensong. I’d gone to this event last year and thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s an amazing experience to sit in the choir stalls and sing in this lovely building where so many of my ancestors were baptised and married. Our rehearsal was followed by tea and cake, before the actual service. These children are  choristers with amazing soprano voices. Top G? No problem! Singers of all ages gathered for tea. Unfortunately during the rehearsal the organ develped some technical problems because of the heat of the afternoon, but they were able to fix it before the service. After the service I thought I’d get a drink in the Piece hall before catching the train home, and i stumbled upon a TV recording session of The Antiques Roadshow. people had been queuing for several hours in the heat of the afternoon sun to have their precious possessions assessed by experts. of course, Fiona Bruce was on hand to meet and greet.

Monday was a trip to Manchester with 5 other ladies. First of all, just on the spur of the moment I directed them to Manchester cathedral. Before my daughters had come to visit me in May I’d requested that 2 of the marriage registers showing the marriage of my ancestors  there in the 1820’s be put on display. However, we never got to go to see them.

So today I popped in, by chance found the chief archivist, who, within 10 minutes had

located the marriage registers and put them on display in the Cathedral’s museum, wow!  Then,  breakfast at Harvey Nichols, a trip around Manchester Central Library and  the

Portico Library and finally  an elegant afternoon tea at the Midland Hotel – where Rolls met Royce, no less!

Of course, a little window shopping was involved too! Lovely day out.

The morning after my birthday Anna left to travel around Belgium with an old friend of mine from college days who now operates his own tour company, and then to visit a friend of hers in Denmark. We were heading out for the Big Sing in a rainy Piece Hall in Halifax. There was a tradition dating back 100 years that up to 1000 school children would gather in the Piece Hall and sing together at Whitsuntide. Since the reopening of the renovated Piece Hall in August 2017 many historical event have been recreated there and this was just one of many. 600 children had been taught songs which some of them had supplied the words for, and the lyrics had been set to music by members of the Calderdale Music Trust.The girls had been given the opportunity to spend a night on Nicola’s canal boat and were very excited by the prospect. She warned them about the pitfalls – being woken by cackling geese or crowing roosters but they seemed to sleep through all the commotion. We spent the next day driving around the tops, having lunch at Brosters Farm shop with an amazing view out over Halifax, and stopped for refreshments at the Wetherspoons in Brighouse which is located in a church – a Methodist church at that! But its a lovely idea, and the organ is still in place in the gallery.

Next stop was Saddleworth Moor to see the memorial to Keith Bennett who, at the age of 12, was one of victims of the Moors Murderers, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. I recall sitting on a swing in a park in Tockholes, as a 8 year old, looking out onto the moors and wondering if the moors that I could see were the same ones on which the murderers buried their victims. I don’t ever recall being on Saddleworth Moor before, and its very beauty somehow made the crimes even more disturbing. We drove next to Lumbutts. My mum had mentioned Mankinholes Youth Hostel to me many times. I’m not sure if she had stayed there or was just intrigued by the name! We stopped at the Top Brink pub for a drink and then crossed the street to see the grave of Abraham and Mary Wrigley. Abraham was my great, great, great, great uncle. His daughter, Mary, died aged 13. One of his sons, John, emigrated to New Zealand in 1863. It seems almost incomprehensible to move from Todmorden to New Zealand at that date. A lot  the information I have about that side of my ancestry comes from a distant relative who I ‘met’ through Ancestry.com. She lives in New Zealand, and sent me some photos of the Wrigleys.

This is Abraham, who is buried at Lumbutts and his son, John who emigrated to New Zealand.

Next morning Sarah wanted to revisit Bridestones rocks which we had visited together last summer. Outcrops of millstone grit are common on the hilltops in this area and you can have a great time conjuring up faces and dragons in their weird and wonderful shapes. It was a lovely clear day but quite windy.

In the evening Sarah and I went to explore Widdop Moor and reservoir. There’s a bus out to this remote spot that just runs on summer weekends, but I’d not been on it so since we had a car it was the perfect time to go on a recce. We timed our evening drive just right for some great light. We walked across the dam and a little way along one side of the reservoir.

Next morning I bought a printer and DVD player, making use of the car to transport them home, and then we had lunch in the Loom Cafe at Dean Clough mill. We went to see the amazing lego model of what was once one of the largest mills in the world, and the largest carpet factory in the world. I think my Auntie Lil worked there. Sarah managed to find in the visitors’ book her comments from our visit last year. Then it was a clamber up the 369 steps to the top of Wainhouse Tower. It’s only open a few day each year so this was a first for me too. We all received a certificate to commemorate our visit. 

Mr Wainhouse built many houses for the people who worked in his dye works. Not content with climbing one tower we hurried on to Heptonstall where the church tower was supposed to be open for the public to view. As far I can gather this is a very rare occurrence and there were several people who’d lived in the village for 20 years and had never climber the tower. I’m not surprised! The health and safety people in the US would never, NEVER, have allowed us up. By the time we got to the top we had to climber through a window and then clamber onto the roof itself. It was wonderful – even though I’m not particularly comfortable with heights. Looking down onto the graveyard where my great, great, great, great grandparents are buried and onto the village where they lived for several generations was a wonderful experience. Our guide explained the workings of the bells and the clock too.

It just happened that David from Lily hall was taking the tour too and he invited us back to Lily Hall. Now all the girls have stepped inside the building where, in 1842,  Elizabeth Ann had a child with the young man next door, after her husband had died from ‘alpaca wool poisoning’, thereby connecting my family with the Wrigley family (some of whom emigrated to New Zealand, and others who built a lot of buildings in Hebden Bridge, including the one I’m living in).

We joined people, and doggies,  for drinks in the beer garden at The Cross to complete a wonderful day out.

Next morning we were off bright and early to catch coffee morning at St Paul’s in Astley Bridge, the church and day school  where my dad was raised. It took a little over an hour to drive there, whereas on the one time I took public transport it took me 4 hours each way! We were welcomed with open arms and spent a lovely hour looking round the church where my great grandad was organist and choir master for 35 years, and chatting to Sylvia. Of all the people I know, she ‘gets’ my move back to England. She spent 46 years in South Africa before moving back to England about 10 years ago. 

There’s a stained glass window of St Cecilia dedicated to my great grandad, but his grave marker has fallen over, and has been that way for several years, though I have photos of it before it fell over.

Just a couple of minutes’ drive took us to All Souls where my great uncle on my mum’s side of the family was a bell ringer. There’s a large photo of my great grandparents, John and Maria Hill in their history display. I wear her wedding ring.

We had lunch in their little cafe before going up to Affetside for our second visit. Just as last June when Sarah and I visited, Geoffrey Bond was mowing the grass outside the little church. He must be in his 90’s by now. When I attended the Sunday school, which doubled as my elementary school for the rest of the week, Geoffrey played the organ. I once sand a solo at the sermons. I was probably around 8 years old. We chatted to Geoffrey and just as last year the church was open. It’s very strange to stand in a place like that which I knew intimately and try and put myself back to that age. I went to school there from age 5 to 11. I remembered the cupboard where the books were kept, the view out of the window, where I stood to sing my solo! and where the headmaster sat at lunchtime. There was no break  fro the two teachers in a two roomed school!

 

We took a little stroll down Black Lane. There wild flowers were amazing. I don’t remember them being so vibrant and prolific when I lived there. I suppose I just didn’t notice them.

I was very, very tempted to abduct the ‘Affetside’ sign laying by the old cross!

Next to Holcombe Tower, built to commemorate Holcombe’s famous son, Robert Peel, founder of the ‘bobbies’, ‘peelers’, or to the uninitiated – the police force and prime minister. As a child it used to be a long long way to the top. These days we seem to be able to get up the hill in no time at all. The views are well worth it, for this is the start of the Pennine mountain range that runs along the backbone of England.

We spent the next day at Saltaire where a former mill, processing alpaca wool, was founded by titus Salt, using the power of the River Aire. It’s now a wonderful museum (all free, of course), set of galleries, including some devoted to the works of David Hockney, cafes and shops. Salt built an entire town for his employees – schools, churches, hospitals, houses – and I believe that one of my ancestors lived in a house there, though recently I have begun to have doubts about the veracity of that particular line of research. Must add it to my ‘things to do list.’

Our final day together in England was a day of furious packing, Sarah for her return to San Francisco and Rachel and I for our 5 night get-away to Iceland. We did manage to set aside a few hours for a hike into Hardcastle Crags, where Gibson Mill’s cafe, which is totally off the grid, wasn’t able to offer us tea because it hadn’t been sunny enough to generate the necessary power. Darn it. Had to settle for a beer instead!

 

 

Anna arrived a few days before her sisters, and we were all together for my birthday.

We took a lovely walk along the tops from Pecket Well to Mytholmroyd and then back along the Rochdale canal.

 

The girls brought me lots of family photos that I’d not had room for in my boxes when I moved to England. We had fun in Stubbings Wharf looking at the old photos.

Shopping featured high on their ‘to do’ list. We went to explore Blackburn market one morning.

Another day we drove along the tops and enjoyed the views of Hebden Bridge  from Heptonstall.

 

We climbed up to Stoodley Pike from my apartment. It was very windy at the top.

For my birthday treat we went to see Sarah Millican’s stand up comedy show at the Victoria Theatre in Halifax, stopping in at the Square Chapel for a bite to eat before the performance.

On my  birthday we’d come up with a plan to go to Turton and Affetside. I was married at Turton church and so were my parents. We presumed it would be locked so you can imagine our excitement when we saw that the door was open and a few cars were in the drive. As we approached I could hear a choir singing ‘Eternal father strong to save’ which is usually sung ‘for those in peril on the sea.’ I though perhaps there was a funeral

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in progress, so we quietened down, and found ourselves in a crowded room at the back of the church, set up with tables and chairs amply garnished with tea and scones. At that moment the whole room erupted in the singing of Happy Birthday. I couldn’t believe it! The girls and I all burst into tears. We were looked at by the assembled mass as if we’d come from another planet! It soon became apparent that it was someone else’s birthday – and the tea party was a fund raiser for the National Lifeboat Institute! As soon as I explained our presence one of the churchwardens took it upon himself to show us

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round. I was invited to play the organ. The girls were coerced into singing along to All Things Bright and Beautiful, and then the marriage register was brought out from the vestry and I could actually touch my signature that I wrote on August 26th, 1978. Outside St Anne’s, Turton. I recently used the grotesque in my new quilt. I often create a quilt at a major change in my life and my move to Hebden Bridge last autumn was no exception. 

Next stop was Affetside, the tiny village, no more than a hamlet really, where I was born and lived until I went to college.

My old house now looks like this. It used to look that that (with our turquoise Land Rover – ex army – outside).

This was the view from my bedroom window – except that the trees hadn’t grown so tall when I lived there.

Next stop was to go and say hello to my mum. We’d made an appointment at the cemetery and we were shown to the grave. She’s buried with her parents.

In the evening we drove out towards Haworth to catch a wonderful sunset and were the only customers at The Friendly in Stanbury. What an amazing day!!!!

The weather looked decidedly un-Easterlike, so I stocked up with heart-warming provisions!

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As I waited for the bus up to Heptonstall on Easter Sunday morning I found myself in a hail storm. Now, I WAS expecting to sing “All hail the power of Jesu’s name” at the Easter service but I didn’t expect him to be taking this literally. As I tried to send a text I found that my phone auto completes Jesu to Jedi. ohm what a gay day!

Easter Sunday in Heptonstall involves a short service at the Methodist octagonal chapel, a parade of parishoners along the steep cobbled streets to the church of St Michael’s. With temperature below freezing and a mixture of hail and sleet falling from the heavens only one brave soul was dressed in Easter togs and an Easter bonnet to crown it!

Easter Monday is the Hebden Bridge duck race. Only the bravest of souls ventured out for this event. It’s a fund raiser done by the Rotary club.

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It involves 10,000, yes, ten thousand plastic ducks being thrown over one bridge and fished out at the next bridge. The purchaser of the winning duck got a vacation for 2. Ducks are a £1 each.

A net across the river stops the ducks from wandering downstream and polluting the river. But this means that volunteers have to wade in, shovel them up into buckets and take them up the ladder.

Meanwhile the Hebden Bridge Brass Band played – and the local geese got very disoriented.

Since my regular Tuesday events weren’t taking place because of Easter week I took the opportunity to revisit Bradford Cathedral and work on one of  the tapestries that will adorn the altar when they’re completed. I did some work on them in the summer. I also checked out the new rooftop restaurant  in the South Asian Arts organisation – great place full of interesting art, photography and poetry. Last time I was there I met Delius!

A day out in Leeds to see Art – the play with Nigel Havers  (Man child) and Stephen Tompkinson (Brassed Off). Most movies and TV I watched in the US were English. I didn’t have actors I wanted to see live. In any case they’d probably in New York or LA and the tickets would be just too expensive anyway. So today I got to see two of my favourite all-time actors together. The Grand Theatre in Leeds really IS grand – a step back into Victoriana. It was built in 1878 as a backlash to the craze for music halls which let the tone of the city down! Not sure what Beethoven was doing there.

I spent three hours this morning tucked into the archives at the Hebden Bridge History Society opening boxes that once lived in Greenwood Lee, the house belonging to generations of Gibsons. I’d spent yesterday morning in Greenwood Lee, chatting to the current owner who still retains some of the Gibson papers. It’s a wonderful building, begun in the 11th century and as I walked up the drive a flock of pheasants flew in to join the peacocks who were just having their elevenses on the front lawn. It’s fascinating to go through these documents, and now doubly so, having been to the house. I found a hand-drawn map showing the position of Greenwood Lee in comparison to Gibson Mill (in Hardcastle Craggs). ‘In 1650 Greenwood Lee was twice sold. For a time it was in possession of the Sutcliffe family and in 1762 it was purchased at auction by Abraham Gibson. There was a rumour that Abraham was so drunk at the auction that he didn’t know what he was doing. Abraham ran a cotton spinning mill at Greenwood Lee and built on an extension to house the wheel before moving down the valley to work at Gibson Mill. Gibson Mill was eventually given to the National Trust in the early 1950’s along with Gibson Mill. The Trust sold Greenwood Lee off and it is now in private ownership.’ (From Power in the Landscape). Movie makers have expressed interest in using the home and the outlying buildings and land for movie sets. The house is directly above Hardcastle Craggs and Gibson Mill. In the boxes I even found a doggie pedigree. The last Abraham Gibson was an avid Airdale terrier man. The current owner knew a lady who Mr Gibson used to give a ride to when she was a little girl. He had one of the first cars in Calderdale. His detailed account books are in the archives and go right up until the week he died in 1956. His personal diaries are there too, and postcards he received from friends or perhaps relatives on holiday in Blackpool and on a steam ship. Absolutely fascinating.

I made lunch when I got home using some of the delicious produce I’d purchased at the market on Thursday, and also got a baguette from the tiny bakery that’s directly beneath my apartment – along with the fish and chip shop. Once a week I see the potatoes arrive in big sacks carried over the delivery man’s shoulders!

After lunch in the company of the teary -eyed  British women’s curling team after their 4th place in the Winter Olympics, I tried to settle down for an afternoon at home. But the sun was streaming through my living room window, and with snow in the forecast for 5 out of the next 7 days I didn’t feel content mooching around indoors, so on the spur of the moment I put on my boots and within 5 minutes I was waiting for a bus into Halifax. Unlike yesterday it showed up on time – but this time with an Out Of service sign. Someone once remarked that they wished they lived in the town of  Out Of Service because so many buses go there. It was  bitterly cold waiting 15 minutes for the next bus and I realised that the warmth in my south facing living room had been very artificial.

I was heading for Ogden water, a reservoir and country park on the North side of Halifax. Exploring Calderdale from Halifax to Hebden Bridge over the last week, getting my bearings on the lie of the land and the proximity of one village to another had made me realise that I hadn’t been North of Halifax. I popped into the bus station information office and a man with the longest fingernails I’ve ever seen informed me that I’d missed the last bus to Ogden, but I could get within about a mile by getting the bus to Illingworth. By now it was getting a bit late in the afternoon for setting out on such an expedition but I didn’t feel like giving up and going home, so I pressed on. Once past the sprawling complex of Dean Clough Mill, once the largest carpet manufacturing mill in the world (where I’d been to see a new production of Hard Times last weekend) I found myself in new territory. The landscape here is very different and reminded me of north Yorkshire. There are no steep-sides narrow valleys with fast running streams and consequently far fewer mills were built here, since there was no water power. It’s much more agricultural with rolling gentle hills. I followed Google maps so I knew where I get off the bus and walked along the crest of Keighley Road to the reservoir.

The wind was strong, the cold actually burning my cheeks but not to worry, I knew there was a cafe at the water’s edge. But . .  .Note to the Vistors’ Centre: Will you please update your website? It states that in February the Visitors’ Centre, cafe and toilets close at 5. It was 3:50 and all the buildings were  already closed. I think I must be turning into wimp because there were lots of people walking around the water, babies in buggies, even the occasional jogger in shorts for goodness sake, and a lovely old lady who reminded me of my mum. It’s only a couple of miles around the reservoir and I found that it reminded me a lot of Entwistle reservoir in Turton. After crossing the dam I found myself in the woods, but what was this – a pile of old Christmas trees? I did a double take. OMG. Around the entire perimeter of the reservoir is a hedge made out of recycled Christmas trees. I looked in vain, hoping to see at least one Christmas ornament, but the only object I found suspended from one tree was a price tag! By the time I got around to the far side of the lake the sun was on the horizon and the light was beautiful. Taking photos was a bit

tricky because I need to take my gloves off for every photo. I’m seriously considering buying a second pair of gloves and cutting out just one finger to operate the shutter. I

took a footpath back to Keighley Road and was not looking forward to waiting for a bus, but what was that? One was coming. I jumped on and was back in town in 20 minutes.

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Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’d thawed out a little on the bus but I needed a hot drink to keep me company while I waited for the bus back to Hebden. It was 6 o’clock by now, almost dark and Halifax town centre had already closed its eyes and  gone to sleep. Only Costa Coffee was open, and even then I was their last customer of the day.