Halifax Concert Band had been going to record a CD during the winter but that weekend all the roads over the Pennines were closed due to snow, so our recording weekend had to be postponed. Now it was upon us: Thursday and Friday evening, and all day Saturday. Our ‘studio’ was St Mark’s church in Siddal, just out of the centre of Halifax. Our sound technician was fantastic, achieving just the right balance between serious work and frivolity. The weather was again very hot. I even bought a little hand held fan to cool me down! Sitting on the pews in a church for 8 hours wasn’t the most comfortable, but I really enjoyed myself. Having a picnic lunch outside was a situation that doesn’t happen often in Northern England. Of course, the heat has meant moor fires, and two massive fires have broken out in Saddleworth and Belmont. The army is helping to fight them.

Well, boys and girls, it’s been exactly six months since I moved to Hebden Bridge after spending 32 years in America. Locals here look at me strangely when I tell them that. Their eyes tend to open really wide and the word “Why?” is long and drawn out, encompassing a myriad of inflections. Of course, I’ve been asking myself the same question every day for six months but I promised that I’d commit some of those thoughts to paper at the half anniversary. So, I’ve chosen what I’ve done over the last couple of days to try and explain, both to other people, but also to myself the answer to ‘why?’

Yesterday it wasn’t raining, it wasn’t snowing and the temperature was above freezing at 10 a.m. This winter has been long and more severe than is usual. Even the upcoming week’s weather forecast predicts snow for three days. There were a couple of weeks when the temperature didn’t rise above freezing during the daytime and it was so icy outdoors that I basically stayed at home, just popping out for groceries as and when I needed them. During this time I had little face to face contact with anyone apart from the shop keepers, and their cheerful,”Thanks, love,” and “Lovely darlin’ ” were an important part of my support service! I have a lot to thank myself for in choosing the location of my apartment. I have a bakers, a chip shop, a hairdressers, an ATM in the same building. In the next door building there’s a grocery store, a library, a pub and a gay bar. Across the street there’s a charity store, a chemist, a jewellers, a specialist food store, a Chinese takeway and a florist. These are all small shops with just one server – not some vast warehouse of a place with a dozen checkouts –  so you soon get to know each other. I’ve become involved in an age friendly rural areas project  being done by Manchester University about age friendly rural areas project (Manchester Urban Collaboration on Health (MUCH)) which has involved me taking photos in the area of things/people/ideas that are/are not age friendly. This has made me even more aware of the necessity of friendly shopkeepers, helpful bus drivers, chatty milkmen to mention just a few. In Santa Cruz I could walk to a grocery store, coffee shop, pub but that was about it. I used a bus maybe a handful of times in the 12 years I lived there. If I wanted to go out anywhere it had to be by car – band rehearsal, the library, a concert. Living in Hebden Bridge I can get to my band and my volunteer adult literacy at the homeless shelter by bus, and all concerts in Leeds or Manchester by train. At least you get to meet people on the bus, and more rarely, on the train.Take yesterday as I was on the bus to Heptonstall I sat next to an elderly lady who’d travelled by bus from Rochdale to see the Pace Egg play and she told me that one of the hilltop buses begins its service for the Spring season tomorrow. I may go and check it out of the weather holds.

So finding a few days of better weather lures me outdoors without too much persuasion. Yesterday I decided to try my map-reading skills up in the hills. I knew that it’s too wet to hike through fields, the mud is still so deep that my boot sinks in all the way to my ankle. (That’s why people around here have waterproof leather hiking boots, but mine are not waterproof because I didn’t need them to be in California.) I walked across a dam, then through a couple of farms where the sheep stared at me with a ‘who the hell is this?’ look on their faces, while in the next field a  farmer was raking flat a couple of hundred mole hills. The farmers on these high moors work incredibly hard to keep their pastures and grazing land in tiptop condition. If they didn’t the fields would soon revery to being moorland. A steep footpath downhill brought be to the next reservoir where I followed

the footpath around and subsequently the river outlet into the town of Ripponden. There’s a lot about Ripponden that’s like Hebden Bridge – an early mill town, quaint terraced houses built onto steep hillsides, but it doesn’t have the ease of access to public transportation, not the number of activities and festivals. It does have a great old pub there where I was able to have lunch. Just as I was reflecting on how well my map-reading had gone  I managed to get on not exactly the wrong bus, the right bus but going in the wrong direction! I couldn’t help but laugh. It mattered not one jot. I had nowhere else to be. With a Day Rover ticket you could travel on any amount of rides for an entire day, so I enjoyed my impromptu visit to Huddersfield bus station, where, in exactly two minutes I purchased a cup of tea, a bag of cheese and onion crisps and jumped back on the bus, which deposited me directly outside my apartment 50 minutes later. However, since it was Thursday that meant it was market day in Hebden. I buy all my fruit, veggies, cheese and fish from the market stalls which are erected in the centre of town every Wednesday evening. When I got to Phil’s fish stall I was greeted with, “Ee, luv. Yer a bit later than normal today. Wer’ve yer bin?” Phil only had two pieces of salmon left, but I thanked him for the cooking tips he gave me about the kippers last week. “We won’t be ‘ere next week. Am takin’ wife caravanin.’ We’re goin’ to a 21st century caravan site in Shropshire. All mod cons. Hot tubs, swimmin’ pool – the lot. You name it. They ‘ave it.” Next stop was the cheese stall where I buy tiny slices of 3 different cheeses each week just to try them out. So far my favourite is Harrogate Blue. Then to the veggie stall for a cauli, a cabbage, a melon, tomatoes, carrots, onions, leeks, apples, bananas, clementines. He fills a bag, and then as always brings it around the stall so I don’t have to reach over for it because it’s quite heavy by then.

Good Friday today. I’d planned on going up to Heptonstall to see the Pace Egg festival. This tradition is confined to Lancashire, Yorkshire and parts of the Lake District and may have some pagan origins, but basically it’s an opportunity for a few people to dress up in

funny costumes and learn lines, and the rest of the people to eat, drink and be merry, though there’s now quite a lot of money raised for various charities. The event took place on Weavers’ Square within a stone’s throw of the grave of my gt gt gt gt grandparents and I wondered as a sat watching the action, both on and off stage if Mr and mrs Wrigley

had ever witnessed a Pace Egg play on this very spot. There were 5 different performances during the course of the day and I had been warned that if you want to hear the play you should go to an early performance. By the end of the day there’s a big crowd and it’s very noisy. A lot of alcohol was in evidence even by 12:30 .

The church was serving tea and flapjack so after a quick stop for a hot dog David, Ann and I went into the church. To my surprise someone was playing the piano. I went over and a young man was playing a piece by John Cage “In a Landscape.” That was very unexpected. So was the fact that the piano was made by Broadwood! He invited me to play and since he also had some Bach music I played that. Then he asked me if I’d give him lessons. I’m still working on trying to find a place to teach in town. I had a lead a couple of days ago but it didn’t pan out.

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By the time I’d walked down the steep hill back into Hebden the sky had clouded over and soon the rain came down. I’m working on a group of songs for the HBLT choir to sing and one is about the Worth Valley railway, so I’m considering taking a ride on the steam train tomorrow if the weather behaves itself.

Well, it was raining when I got up today and the forecast was for mixed rain and snow but I reasoned that I wouldn’t be outdoors much if I followed through with my idea to go on the Worth Valley railway. I caught the Bronte bus (this one is named Charlotte) at the

bus stop 15 seconds walk from my apartment and got off at Oxenhope station. Though today’s line is only 5 miles long it ran as a working railway from 1867 but was closed in 1962, reopening again just 50 years ago. It’s been the location of many movies, probably the most famous of which is The Railway Children. It was raining quit hard as I boarded the train. It quite surprised me to find myself in a compartment all to myself. I’d forgotten about these old train with no corridors! It took me a while to be brave enough to roll down the window in the door, carefully hanging onto my phone as I leaned out of the train to take photos. I made notes on things I was seeing to help me in my song lyrics.

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In June of 2016, contemplating my decision to spend the summer in England for the first time in 31 years I wrote the following in my journal :

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 I 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 have 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 absent, I could explore a new me. But I wonder about my capacity to be a woman in a place without an identity, without friends. Alone for 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 windswept coastal buffs and wide sandy beaches of Santa Cruz, in hurried intermissions at concerts and over 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 eventually 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 taking a quick picnic in the local cemetery (yes, one of our favorite pastimes!) or downing 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 five generations ago my ancestors were baptized, and then maybe climb the hill above the village to look down on that church, a view that may not have changed during the last 600 years.

I think I’ve learned a lot in the last two years about what’s important to me.

Not bad for one day. Oh, and  I forgot the broken down train which is why I’m currently sitting on the station platform in Manchester where I’ve been for the last hour waiting for a replacement train.

This morning I gave a demonstration to 160 7-11 year olds showing them a recorder, a clarinet and piano. I played some little ditties, explained how to practice and had some of them come up to the front and bang on the keys to make animal sounds. I asked if anyone could name a composer. Dead silence! Then one bright spark shouted John Rutter. That just about knocked the socks off me. I thoroughly enjoyed myself which totally surprised me.  I was so pleased with myself I treated myself to a true English pancake with lemon and sugar from Halifax Borough market.

All a far cry from the other end of the day: a brilliant recital by Stephen Hough who is fast becoming my favourite pianist. Loved his shoes, too. Patent leather ballet flats with little ribbon bows.

The market comes to town every Thursday and I buy my fruit, veggies, cheese and fish there – not to mention a bacon butty for lunch which can be eaten on The Square, weather permitting! Unlike the Farmers’ markets in the U.S this produce doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg. Total for this little lot was £8. The box of tomatoes was £1.

The weather forecast was predicting icy weather for the next few day – and for the whole of March! Knowing that I should take advantage of today’s sunny sky I decided after lunch – bacon butty, apple and satsuma – to take the bus up to Old Town and find a hike along the upper ridge and dropping down into Mytholmroyd. There were several people waiting at the bus stop. Ten minutes after the bus was due a man and his son left saying ‘We’ll go to the library instead.’ Another man, obviously quite disgruntled commented ‘I feel like getting a taxi and send ‘t bus company th’ bloody bill. Bloody bus ‘as brok’n doon agin.’ A couple of minutes later, before I could check the time of the next ‘bloody bus’ a taxi stopped to pick up three of the waiting passengers. “Hold on,” I called, “Can I come too?” So off we all went up t’th’ tops. I paid £1 to the driver and got out just by Hebden Bridge golf course, picking up the upper road where I had left it on Monday. This time I had an ordinance survey map with me so that I could pick out features in the landscape.

Looking across to Stoodley Pike

Mytholmroyd in the bottom You can just make out Sowerby church on the centre skyline where I walked from on Monday

You can just make out Sowerby church on the left skyline where I walked from on Monday

Not sure I’d want this as the name of my house! But what I learned from the Antiquarian lecture on Monday is that this indicates where a family built a dwelling for a son. So the initial family would live in Rough Farm and when the son came of age a dwelling would be built for him to weave and farm, and the family farm’s name  would change to Rough Top, and the son’s would be called Rough Bottom. (Same goes for Slack Top and Slack Bottom just above Heptonstall. There’s also Dog Bottom!

At some point I knew that I had to head down into the valley. Ah, I see a Public Footpath sign. Perhaps I should take that track. but what’s that I see lying in the grass?

OK, there’s no way in hell I’m going to walk through their field!

Eventually I found another path that took me to the Grove Inn on Burnley Road. Perhaps i can have a sit down and get a drink there.

Hmm – no house, free or otherwise, no B and B and certainly no food on offer.

So I joined the towpath in Brearley, having decided to continue walking all the way back to my apartment. A little farther along I saw a building I’d not noticed before: The Kitchen, adjacent to the towpath. It was advertising coffee to take away. That’s a nice idea, I thought. I’ll be very American and walk back into Hebden sipping at my coffee. People don’t do that in England very much at all. Tea or coffee is a ritual here that requires sitting down for a considerable length of time, and either musing quietly to oneself or talking animatedly depending on the company you are in. But once inside the place looked so attractive I decided to take my coffee in. Note to self: they do curries too, so I could walk along the canal from my apartment (about 2 miles) and get a curry and stroll back into town.

Wonder if my daughters would feel at home there?

First daffies I’ve seen in bloom

Late afternoon sunshine. Looking to see where I’ve walked from – the top of the farthest hill.

I always say hello to these ducks. They live at a house next to the canal and someone told me that the house used to keep chickens in a hen house. During the 2015 flood they all drowned, so now they keep ducks instead.

Thursday evenings are band night. I joined the Halifax Concert Band and next weekend we are spending Thursday and Friday evening and all day Saturday recording a CD. Here’s an extract from our rehearsal last night. The balance is all wrong because I was recording it in my coat pocket!

My next knitting project – honestly! – being given its first airing at the Antiquarian Society

I can’t help comparing England and the U.S. I’ve spent an equal amount of time in both countries. Actually, I’d prefer to say ‘cultures’ because, despite the common language (well, for the most part) the cultures are vastly different. Last night I attended my first Calderdale Antiquarian Society meeting. Despite its name it’s not a society for old people   but I was certainly one of the youngest in attendance. I got talking to a lady whose one daughter moved to Canada.We chatted about being away from our children, and she shared with me that she’s now tired of going to Canada because, naturally, she always goes to the same place to visit her daughter. It reminded me of the trips to Europe that our family did when we lived in the U.S but as the girls got older we would combine a week visiting relatives in England with a few weeks seeing parts of Europe that were new to us all. I suppose I’m thinking about this from my mum’s point of view at the moment since my daughters are coming to see me soon – and they’ve all been to Hebden Bridge before.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the meeting which was entitle Aspects of the Landscape in Upper Calderdale. About 60 people showed up on a wet, chilly night gathered in a chapel. The screen was suspended from the organ pipes. Most of the attendees sat for the 75 minutes in their coats, and not a few kept their hats on, and I thought how quintessentially British! I remember taking photos of my family on visit to England taking my mum out for lunch and she’d always wear a hat – during the meal. Tonight’s meeting was free – donation accepted.  If you want to join the society it costs £10 per year. This is just the same mindset as the lunchtime organ and brass band concert the previous day when 1000 people attended a free event. Where are these events in the U.S? And more to the point where are the equivalent people in the U.S? Shut in watching the telly? In nursing homes playing bingo? It took me all my powers of concentration to keep up with the lecture. My hopes that there would be stunning photos of ancient walls, enclosed fields and rocky outcrops were thwarted. Instead we saw a handful of landscape photos  and the remaining slides were charts and maps showing the gradual development of mini hamlets, into hamlet, thence into villages and so on into townships. We were treated to several lessons in the derivation of local place-names from the Norwegian Anglo Saxon language (!) and the influence of the Romano Celtic alphabet. Fascinating for nerds like me. Where are these lectures in Santa Cruz (pop 62000)? It’s too small a place , you may say. OK. Where are they in Oakland, in San Francisco – (pop 864000)?  Halifax’s population is 82,000: Night after night of free (or almost free) education.

• 

  A thousand people were present for this Monday lunchtime free concert

  

  

  Flugelhorn soloist is off to U C San Diego to do a Masters in composition

  

  Trombone sextet

  

  My fellow Meetup member did a couple of drawings of one of the audience during the music.

  

  He was delighted with the outcome!

• Since it’s half term this week my regular weekly events, art class, chatty crochet and choir, have all been cancelled so that gave me the opportunity to reconnect with a Meetup group and go to Leeds Town Hall for a recital by Huddersfield University Brass band and he resident town hall organist. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I walked into the Victoria Hall. The place was packed. I mean, this was a rainy Monday lunchtime concert. The Hall holds 1200 people so I judge there must have been 1000 people there! It certainly felt like it as the audience left the hall through the narrow winding hallways. We were packed like sardines still swimming in a tin. Huddersfield was one of my Alma matas so it was good to see their current band who are regarded highly. They looked SO young!

So the guitar concerto finished to tumultuous applause and Ravel’s Bolero brought the concert to stunning conclusion, but my evening’s entertainment was far from over. I found myself with a full hour to kill on Manchester Victoria station before I caught the last train back to Hebden Bridge. Now, in all fairness, I had been warned by several people that catching the last train from the big city, especially on a Saturday night could be ‘a bit of a bother’ but I had smiled to myself and thought ‘I’m a woman of the world – surely it can’t be that bad!’ Ha! Ha!

First off I headed for the toilet. Now, I’d used that particular public convenience on the station concourse before, so I had my 60p ready in my hand, tut tutting to myself about the outrageous cost of a pee on British stations when, to my surprise there were three teenage boys at the turnstile where you put your money in. “We’ll hold the bar and you can get in without paying.” OK, I thought. I’ll go for that. They held the bar and I walked through into the ladies only to find every stall featured a man peeing – with the door open. ‘Oh, my god. I’ve gone into the men’s by mistake!’ and rushed out, scarlet faced. I checked the sign on the door – twice. No, I was right. This was the ladies. Ha! Ha! Good joke. I returned, found an empty stall, locked the door, and went about my business with a huge grin on my face.

Returning to the concourse I set about waiting for an hour for the last train to Hebden. I had a sandwich to eat that I’d taken to the concert with me but didn’t get to eat it in the intermission as planned because of the interesting conversation I had with the man in the adjacent seat. I asked if he’d ever heard Rodrigo’s guitar concerto played live before. He hadn’t. He wasn’t used to coming to ‘these things’ but had been to an all black production of Hamlet at the Lowry Centre the previous week and had left at the intermission because he didn’t think that Shakespeare’s characters should dressed in ‘rap gear.’ I asked if he thought that the orchestra should change into appropriate clothing for the year in which each piece was composed. This brought out such a lovely laugh that I decided to continue the conversation, rather than barge my way past him to the bar. He has just taken up the saxophone and has had four lessons. He finds the whole experience is magical – his words, not mine. He’d always wanted to play the piano as a child but he was committed to football practice 6 days a week and so his dad said no to piano. After 20 years in the army, and 20 years in business at the age of 57 he’s semi retired and just beginning to do all those things he’s never had time for. A friend took him out on a yacht, so he bought a yacht with all the trimmings, and learned to sail on the sea. Then he bought a sort of road bike – a ‘Rolls Royce’ of the biking world after seeing the Tour de France. I asked him why he chose the saxophone. He’d gone to a Barry White concert with his first girlfriend and all the girls in the audience had screamed in girly admiration of the saxophonist, so that’s why he’s chosen the sax: for the sex! By this time the 4 minute call for the restart of the concert had been sounded and I still hadn’t collected the drink I’d pre–ordered from the bar. I rushed out only to find a tub of ice-cream on my number spot. I’d ordered a bottle of water! I ran to the bar tender, was issued with a bottle of water and hurried to my seat.

Back to the station concourse. I found a bench by the barrier on which to while away an hour. Luckily I had my new book with me carefully packed for just such a circumstance. There were two benches to choose from. I stayed away from the one with the girl throwing up as her boyfriend tenderly stroked her back. There was a high police presence on the station, this being the site of the Manchester Arena bombing last May and from time to time one of the policemen checked up on the couple. Soon however, they were joined by another girl who seemed to know them. She kept doubling up and screaming. She appeared totally normal one minute and screaming the next. All this was rather distracting me from reading my book, and when the concert at the Arena let out around 10:30 the station filled, the noise was loud and the women on their stilts of stilettos reminded me more of a balancing act in a circus, than people quietly going about their business on their way home. There was zero quiet here.

Eventually the train arrived and I was careful to sit in a different carriage than the guy with the two out-of-it ladies. I settled back for a 40 minute train ride and for entertainment I watched the locals at play. Each carriage was filled and lots of people were standing. Well, more like swaying, actually. The only sober person – besides me – was a guy with his arm in a sling. A couple were making out one minute and laughing uncontrollably the next as the guy sampled the girl’s friends in turn. I presumed they all knew one another, but when we got to Littleborough, that den in iniquity, the guy got off the train, shouting ‘Nice to have met you all.’ When on the platform he ran to the carriage window and unzipped his pants and held his penis up to the carriage window – MY  window. The train started to move. He held onto the train and started to move with it. The train came to a screeching halt, the guard jumped from the train onto the platform and arrested him. As you can imagine this took some time. The girls were bouncing up and down with excitement and one of them turned to me ‘I feel so badly for you. You were just sitting there nice and quiet and then this happened.’ I laughed.

The next stop was Walsden, five minutes away. During those minutes there was some sort of altercation in the next carriage. Perhaps a fight? The girls got up to look, shoving each other out of the way to get a better look but they couldn’t make out what was going on but there was a lot of movement of people, and raised voices. Now Walsden is a tiny, tiny station in the middle of a little village whose only claim to fame is Grandma Pollard’s Fish and Chip shop. Eventually we could see the girl who’d been throwing up at Victoria Station. She was being propped up on a bench on the platform by a couple of fellas. We waited. And waited some more. The train was going nowhere. There was no information coming on the intercom from the guard. People started to get rattled. ‘Why should we wait because someone can’t hold their drink?’ ‘We want our money back for this ride!’ ‘Just leave her.’ It seemed that we had to wait until either the police or ambulance service came to collect her. So our 40 minute ride turned into an hour and a quarter. The girls called Bye Bye to me as they got off at Hebden Bridge. A very patient taxi driver had been waiting for the arrival of the train to take them through Haworth home to Keighley. I guess I now know what ‘a bit of a bother’ means!

My watch stopped yesterday. I had no idea where to buy a new battery and presumed I’d have to go into Halifax, 8 miles away. So just on the off chance I googled ‘watch battery Hebden Bridge ‘  and up popped a jewellers, on MY STREET! Of course, I’d never noticed it since I’m not in the market for fine jewellry. ‘Would you have a battery to fit this watch?’ ‘Leave it with me for 10 minutes,’ came the reply. I didn’t sign a form. He didn’t even ask for my phone number, let alone a name. In those 10 minutes I went to the butcher’s, (2 Cumberland sausages) the baker’s (a seeded bloomer) and  – no, not the candlestick makers – just the greengrocer’s, ( a parsnip and some Branston pickle) and so by the time I went back to the jewellers my watch was ready. ‘Five pounds please, luv.’

The predicted snow has not arrived in force yet, just smatterings that’s not stuck on the ground, so I’ve decided to forget the weather and risk a trip into Manchester  to go to a concert tonight, which, with a great deal of  imagination since I’ll be wearing my fur boots, thermal underwear, down jacket, bobble hat and gloves,  will transport me to somewhere nice and warm : Welcome to one of the most evocative concerts of the year. Forget the damp cold winter outside and join the Hallé and Craig Ogden, who performs Rodrigo’s matchless guitar concerto, for an evening of Spanish-inspired warmth and passion.

Gergely Madaras conductor | Craig Ogden guitar

Bizet Carmen Suite No.1 and Habañera | Rodrigo Concierto de Aranjuez | Piazzolla Libertango (for guitar and strings) |Chabrier Rhapsody: España | Falla The Three Cornered Hat: Suite No. 1 and 2 | Ravel Bolero