7 p.m. Old Gate
7 weeks to the day since I arrived so I thought it only fitting that I went full circle and had dinner where I had dinner on the night I arrived. Today I chatted with my host as I packed my bags feeling sad, and very conflicted. Over the last 4 days I’ve talked to several people, some for the first time, and some whom I’ve known for many years, about what I feel would be the differences in my life living in England as opposed to living in Santa Cruz. Of course, it’s all conjecture. Here I’m somewhat of a novelty – a Californian in town for a limited time trying to fit in as many things as possible. But that’s not real life, is it? A strange coincidence happened today, which just typifies what I see here. The journalist who showed me around Sowerby put me in touch with a friend and colleague of hers who lives in Hebden Bridge. We met for coffee for the first time – and ended up suggesting we do a house swap. When I mentioned the encounter to my host it turns out that she’s a good friend of hers. My host once moved to Spain but ended up returning to Hebden Bridge because she found it difficult to become part of the society in Spain because it’s centered so much around the family. As Colin said so aptly, ’the problem with having lived in two different cultures is that we end up wanting the best of what each has to offer.
A Sunday in Hebden Bridge has a somewhat Santa Cruzian feel
Today I bought 4 books – oh, the extravagance of the woman! One was Ted Hughes’s The Remains of Elmet and the other was Up North by Simon Armitage. Hughes’s collection of poetry has so many poems about the area that I’ve visited over the past few weeks: Lullenden, Hardcastle Crags, Top Withens, Haworth Parsonage. I spent the afternoon inserting these poems into my blog.
I took myself out for a late lunch in a lovely restaurant – Rendezvous – which I’ve never noticed before though I must have passed it many times. There I dipped into Simon’s book for the first time and found myself laughing out loud at his wit and humour as he depicts his life in a northern town. To prepare for our trip to Ted Hughes’s house yesterday I had watched a documentary , and Simon Arminitage (currently professor of poetry at Oxford) was one of the key commentators. As I watched I couldn’t understand why he was conducting his commentary from a seat in an empty theater until I realized that it was the Old Movie House in Hebden Bridge (where I’d gone the first week) because Ted Hughes did several poetry readings there. Late news: my current host had worked at the Little Theater, also where I’d gone to a show the first week, sometime as an actress and sometimes working behind the scenes.
My Caesar salad has just arrived thirty minutes after I ordered it, but the chicken and the bacon are hot off the grill, and I’ve been able to write seven pages in my notebook as I waited – though why I just found an anchovy in it remains a mystery!
laureate who spent his life dealing with the aftermath of having his first two wives commit suicide. His first wife was Sylvia Plath who is buried in Heptonstall, presumable because Hughes’s parents lived in Slack, the next settlement. So a few minutes later we were in Colin’s rental car and off to Mytholmroyd to find #1 Aspinall Street, Hughes’s birthplace. There’s a simple blue plaque on the end terrace house which can now be rented as a vacation rental.
century dwelling with fantastic views of Stoodley Pike. I’d walked up to this lane a couple of times (it’s close to Slack Bottom!) but I hadn’t realized that this is the home of the writers’ workshop that I tried to get a place in but they were full. There were lots of private 
signs and no turnaround signs but we were fortunate is finding the cleaning lady out and about. “I shouldn’t do this,” she said, “but would you like to come in and look around?” Yeh! It’s beautifully maintained gardens open on views to die for. Several handwritten 
poems by Hughes line the dining room walls. I’d love to come back and take a creative writing seminar. Classes are limited to 16 participants so you get a lot of quality time with the two teachers.
We had a lot of rain on the drive back and the mist was covering the hilltops but by the time we reached Hebden Bridge the sun was shining and I got some of the best shots of the center of the town with the late afternoon light after the heavy rain. We looked in several estate agents’ windows and then we walked along the canal to Stubbin Wharf and had dinner. We’d had a 12 hour day chatting constantly after not spending time with each other for more than ten years.
So a day without plans . . . From my room I could see an imposing old hall across the valley, a little higher than my building so, around 11 a.m. 9a lazy morning writing up my blog) I headed up New Road which climbed steeply until I came to the hall. Despite the intermittent downpours there was an amazing view from this elevated position and I could just seen the window of my room peeking out between the trees. Still wanting to walk some more I walked the entirety of Palace Road where newer brick houses and a few new 
stone houses delineate the extent of the town til 1900. I spent the afternoon trying to make an imovie of my day trip to St Kilda (which, incidentally, is still the only day that I haven’t written about). Around 5 p.m. I headed out for some air and to stretch my legs which is why at 5:20 you find me sitting outside the Innovation cafe, the last customer before it closed. I firmed up my appointment with Jean Illingworth who is going to give me a personal tour of Sowerby on friday morning. She also has a friend, Maggie, a features editor who wants to meet with me. . . .
On the way back to my house I found myself going to check out the Trades Club. When I was living a’t’mill I shied away from this place. It looked a bit dodgy from the outside. Chris said she’d been banned from it, but I was eager to find something to do this evening, and one of the bands was a Beatles cover band, so I thought I’d compare them to the Sun Kings in the Bay area. So I opened the grubby door, mounted the unclean steps and was overwhelmed by a strange smell . . .oh, that’s right. This place serves Himalayan food for 4 pounds each evening. I bought a ticket from the box office and took a look at the band doing a sound check. Moon Duo, the headliner is from San Francisco!
Monday, 1:50 p.m. in the Pack Horse at Affetside waiting for my sp of fish, chips and mushy peas. OK, I had look up sp too! What a strange day. When I checked the weather forecast this morning it looked the best day of the week for a long road trip to Affetside, so off I went, totally on the spur of the moment. 3 buses each way were involved. First to Todmorden, then to Bury via Bacup (which looked extremely sad) and Rawtenstall (which looked flowery). I had a look around Bury’s famous market hall and the Mill Gate Shopping center, and then the bus to Affetside. The Pack Horse looked closed but I guess no-one enters through the front door any more because the car park is in the back, along with the wonderful dining room with floor to ceiling windows overlooking Holcombe moor. However, it was open so I used their facilities and then walked down to 3rd Bungalow from Millenium pond. There’s a new bench now at the stile dedicated to Geoff Kilburn who died last year. He was the father of my friend from the village, Kristine who I went to the 2 room school with. Geoff worked at the abattoir in Bolton and he sometimes brought offal home for my dad (on the bus, of course. I don’t think any of the villagers had cars at that time).
(It’s still puzzling me 24 hours later. I contact the current residents of 3rd Bungalow but it wasn’t them). I asked the manager but she had no information, only saying that when she took over in 2014 
there were a whole pile of photos in an upstairs room, and that at some point locals had been asked to submit memorabilia. The bar tender tried to take the frame off the wall to see if there was anything written on the back but it was so securely fastened that he couldn’t budge it. It seems a shame that there’s no name or location on the photo so that other people could make connections. Anyway, she looks exceedingly happy – and pretty – and yes, she was pregnant with me at the time of the photo. I should send them a picture I have of my dad standing on the roof of the Pack Horse that same winter.
After that very wonderful surprise I tried to take a selfie of me standing in the same position as in the Rose Queen picture (1959?). There was no-one around to ask to take my photo. 🙁 I had decided to walk down Watling Street towards the Bull’s Head since the views across the moors to Turton and Holcombe are very meaningful to me. Passing Walves reservoirs , now completely covered in yellow water lilies I kept walking, through Hawkshaw (The Wagon and Horses is closed for renovation), then on to Holcombe Brook timing it just right to get a bus back into Bury, passing through Tottington. Imagine my horror when I discovered that the only bus of the day left to get me to Todmorden ends in Bacup. I had visions of having to get back to Hebden Bridge by train. However, I did find an inquiry desk and a helpful clerk who rerouted me through Rochdale. This drive is a bit glum, passing through Heywood, a place Rachel and I had visited briefly last year to see the church where some of our ancestors were married. There are no redeeming features here, apart from the bus station which is stunning and new. From Rochdale I was able to get a bus directly to Hebden Bridge. So 7 hours of bus rides, 3 hours of pottering around my old haunts and I was too tired when I got back to plan for the following day.
I enjoyed walking around the village and felt totally comfortable there on my own. Most people I met on the way were walking their dog.
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