11:50 I’m sitting on a rock overlooking a bizarre landscape, listening to Philip Glass’s double concerto. Brimham Rocks is England’s answer to Joshua Tree. yes, it’s less spectacular but it’s on a scale that is manageable. It was less than 15 minutes’ drive from Judith’s house in Birstwith. Arriving at 10 a.m. (Judith was on a work-party for the National Trust)  there were only a few cars in the parking lot. An hour later – when the shop and the ice cream kiosk opened there was a long line of cars waiting to get in. It’s mostly families with young children but I’ve seen several people in wheelchairs too. neither category is present at Joshua Tree – or the Alabama Hills on 395 either, they’re just too remote. Dads were guiding children up onto the weathered rocks whilst moms stood by. Maybe the moms do more of the hands on child rearing in the privacy of their own homes. It was the dads too who were instructing the youngsters on how these weird and wonderful rocks came on to take their present shapes – Dancing Bears and Druid’s Writing Desks, Anvils and Camels. From this hill top you can see York Minster 34 miles away. There’s no sun today, just muggy clouds which means that my photos will have little contrasts. I think I’ll experiment with some black and white shots. This particular spot close to the kiosk is very busy with people holding dripping 99s, but not too far from the beaten path I found solitude and found myself thinking about Picnic at Hanging Rock.

While I was idly wandering around Judith’s work-party had been doing two hours of physical labor on repairing a footpath and she was hot and hungry. So after a quick brunch at her house and last minute packing we set out for Melbourne Road, Hebden Bridge, my new abode. We passed through Ilkley (b’owt ‘at), Keighley which I don’t remember going to before apart from the Worth Valley railway, and the outskirts of Haworth. We drove through Heptonstall but only so that i could take a photo of the Slack Bottom sign for my collection of interesting sign photos. We pressed on to Hebden Bridge where we stopped for refreshment in the square before trying to find my new home. I knew that there was no road access and that the house was approached by a flight of steps and i was already anxious that my two bags were too heavy for this escapade. however, pleading a fragile back I was able to commandeer the help of both Judith and my new host, Patricia, who, together hauled the bags up the 40 difficult steps and then up to my room at the top of the house. How on earth will I managed when I move out?  A little voice reminds me that I am currently moving in, not out, and I should relax. My room is lovely. Not only does it have a fantastic view into the valley with lots of open sky above but it has a window . .  .and it opens!

I spent an hour and a half getting settled and writing my blog, and then, unable to sit still any longer, with brolly unfurled I set out for the canal. It took me 6 minutes to reach my previous mill and then I wandered along, in the rain, past Stubbing Wharf. Coming back I called in for a drink, the 4th time I’ve been there on this trip, simply because the location is great.

Coming back to the house I found that it doesn’t have a microwave-just a fan oven so I’ll  have to rethink my cooking plans while I’m here.

1:45 I’m sitting in Wetherspoon’s in the Old Winter Garden in the center of Harrogate. I rather like the Wetherspoon concept for buying  historic buildings and turning them into bars/eateries while endeavouring to keep as much as their former glory as possible. I’m currently enjoying a pint of Ruddles and waiting for my Tandoori chicken wrap. I was a bit taken aback when they asked me if I wanted chips with it but . .  .there you are.

This is the first time I’ve taken the bus from Birstwith for the 20 minute ride to Harrogate. I couldn’t believe it when it cost 5 pounds 50p. Yikes! Twice on the country lanes the bus had to stop to let lorries negotiate the inches between us and them. There was only one lady at the bus stop and I struck up a conversation with her, initially as to whether I was on the correct side of the road for the bus to Harrogate. It turned out that she used to live in  . .  .Truckee, and was quite familiar with the Donner party story. It’s a pity I didn’t have my Donner party hike hat on! She lived for 23 years in the US, including Las Vegas and returned to the Harrogate area seven years ago.She prefers village life to the hustle and bustle (where?) of the big (?) town. Like me she’s been ancestry hunting for the last seven years. Initially she believed she was the first member of her family to go to the US, but no. Aren’t these coincidences weird? It reminded me of Keith who said that the first time he ever visited Bath he felt as if he was going home – but he’d never visited it before his Jane Austen trip. The ‘Truckee lady’ exchanged a ‘Have a nice day’ as we got off the bus and I set of to wander the streets of Harrogate. The stores are predominantly upscale women’s clothing stores, chic tea rooms and coffee shops. There’s even a Jamie Oliver restaurant. High fashion is here – summer frocks abound and I’ve seen more high heels and maxi dresses in the last 2 hours than I have on the rest of the trip combined.

The Tandoori chicken (rather dry) and salad (rather sad) were adequate but my table just by the open door to the garden area was lovely. “Are you a secret shopper?” came from over my shoulder. It took me a minute to understand the question but someone on the adjacent table thought I was writing a review of Wetherspoons. She commented that sometimes the food took an hour to arrive! I must admit that when I ordered and they told me  that the food would be at least 20 minutes I was somewhat taken aback. But I wasn’t in a hurry and the 30 minute wait gave me time to write up my journal.

Next stop was the Oxfam book shop where Val McDermid was to hold a question and answer session at 3 p.m. I’d helped Judith write a brief press release for the event and the author’s name seemed familiar but when I saw the display I realized that she was the author of Wire in the Blood – that wonderful psychological profile series with Robson Green. About a dozen people showed up and I don’t know how many of those were the book shop staff!  Currently Harrogate is hosting an international music festival and a crime writers festival. I’d though about getting a day pass for the writers festival for tomorrow but the 97 pound price tag made the cost prohibitive (!). Here I was getting a very up close and personal chat with the author for free . . . and she was happy to sign a used copy  (the only ones Oxfam carry) of that very book for me. It was great to hear sentences like,’When I was chatting to Coin Dexter he told me he’d never set foot inside a police station until he’d completed the first five Morse books.” and she related how J. K Rowling came to review her rewrite of Northanger Abbey, bringing it into the 21st century.

Judith had joined me for the book talk but she needed to return to work – this time her job doing some bookkeeping at a vet’s in town, so I settled myself in an upper room at the surgery for an hour or so while she completed her work. We had dinner at The Old Spring Well in Killinghall on the way home since she’d had a particularly taxing day.

Last year when I stayed at Judith’s in the tiny estate village of Birstwith I had commented on the large building on a hill overlooking the village. Originally the entire village belonged to the Greenwood family and all the buildings were constructed for the people who worked at the cotton mill.  Swarcliffe  had turrets and towers and looked very

imposing. Judith told me that it once belonged to the mill owner but was  now a private school. It was only when I got back home  and read about it that I discovered that Charlotte Brontë had resided in this house for the summer of 1839 when the Sedgwick family for whom she was a governess to the two small children moved here for the summer. The home belonged to Mrs Sedgwick’s parents. So on my visit this year I wanted to see if I could get a closer look at the building. As luck would have it Judith knows a teacher there and so we arranged to meet, first in the teacher’s home (next to the post office) which was once the mill manager’s home and then she would give us a short tour of Swarcliffe. In her elegant home she provided me with a copy of a letter that Charlotte wrote to her friend Ellen Nussey, describing how dreadfully unhappy she was at Swarcliffe. Charlotte just

wasn’t a ‘people person’ and with the entertaining of guests and the care of the youngsters (she was not fond of children either) she felt very lonely. “As it is I can only ask you to imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me thrown at once into the midst of a large family – proud as peacocks and wealthy as Jews – at a time when they were particularly gay, when the house was full of company – all strange people whose faces I had never seen before – in this state of things having the charge given me of a set of pampered, spoiled and turbulent children, whom I expected constantly to amuse as well as instruct.”

 

It was a steep climb up to the school, passing the church, but one that Eleanor Bird does each day on her walk to work, where she teaches English. Once a boys’ boarding school it is now an expensive day school for children from nursery school age to eleven years old. Fees are 10,000 pounds per year. Little of the original building that Charlotte knew remains. In fact, probably  only  the original stable block (which is now a classroom)

remains, which may account for the place having no’ blue plaque’ but for me to simply take in the views that she would have looked out on was simply magical. Again it was a very warm day – 80F – and the scenery and extensive grounds looked idyllic, but as Eleanor pointed out, in poor weather (i.e most of the time!) chaparoning the students from one building to another between classes is an arduous duty for the staff. I noticed a noticeboard with the names and successes of about 20 students in the ABRSM music exams. I think I could teach here! I suspect that most of the students go on to ritzy boarding schools and there were some fliers on hand for places like Seburgh and Uppingham, though Eleanor said that some go to local schools too.

The interior has been kept up to look as much like a stately home as possible, though the children won’t see how unusual a school it is until they leave – or become adults. The ornate ceiling and large mirror in particular caught my eye, as well as the amazing views. Eleanor said that she could sometimes see Middlesborough, 70 miles away, on a very clear day. The maid’s bells were mounted and labeled in a corridor and one was the school room. 

In the afternoon we took a stroll along the river Nidd passing Mr Greenwood’s old mill, now a fertilizer factory, which make a very intrusive noise, and then we drove about 5

minutes to Cold Cotes, the Bed and Breakfast where Judith took up a job last month helping to serve breakfast. The extensive gardens were open to the public as part of a fund raiser for the Royal Gardens. I met the owners, who moved there quite recently. The

property was listed for one million pounds. There are eight rooms for BnB, beautifully landscaped gardens and lovely views in all directions. What a difference from Hebden Bridge where the population is all squished together on the steep hillsides. Here we were greeted a lady from the Royal Gardens with a plum in her mouth, and the visitors were showing up in their BMWs and Mercedes convertibles. I sipped a glass of wine and took in the scene.

For our evening’s entertainment we watched Brassed Off, one of my family’s favourite movies, and I was surprised to see places that I now recognize – the Piece Hall in Halifax, and I’m sure I caught a glimpse of Studely pike in the distance.

 

We set off at 9 o’clock for a grand day out in Whitby. If we’d have driven direct it would have taken us about 2 hours but we stopped to look at The Finest View in England, according to James Herriot who wrote All Creatures Great and Small. In Helmsley we had morning tea and a cake. It was a lovely little market town, busy with elderly couples enjoying the dozens of tea shops. There were lots of lovely flowers in hanging baskets too.

We reached Whitby at noon and I could hardly believe the number of holiday makers on the beach, wandering around the narrow streets, and queuing up, 20 deep in some places, for fish and chips, which now come in a blue and white box – rather than newspaper as

they did when I was a child. We were on the headland overlooking the beach (complete with donkey rides) across from the abbey. I barely recognized the place. I’d visited as a child with my parents and was fascinated by the jet for sale in the shops. Then I’d hiked there with Colin along the coastal footpath from Saltburn to Scarborough, a punishing

hike over several days, and we’d stayed at Whitby Youth Hostel which was situated at the top of 199 steps up the cliff – this after a 23 mile hike! Here was the stereotypical British tourist, ladies in skimpy sundresses and men in all their shirtless splendour – not!

We had lunch in a small cafe but it was so hot that it was difficult to eat anything. After lunch I headed for the Captain Cook museum while Judith wandered around the town some more. of course it was no cooler in the museum but it was fascinating to see original documents that he had signed. It was in this building that James Cook served his three year apprenticeship. A special exhibition told the story of the wives and sweethearts the sailors left behind – and how they coped. The exhibition focused on the wives of Cpt Bligh and Cpt Cook.

We decided to drive up to the other headland across the river where the abbey is situated. A wall just above head height surrounds the abbey and the only way in is through the new

Visitors’ center. It was too late in the day, and still too hot, to go inside so instead I went in search of the Youth Hostel. It’s now located in a spiffy new building behind the visitors’ center – very smart – but then I spotted the building we’d stayed in. It’s now Abbey Cottage – a private dwelling. I wanted to see the 199 steps that we’d climbed at the end of a

very grueling day but before I found them I found a very, very steep cobbled street that runs adjacent to the steps. I didn’t remember that as being an option.

We stopped to collect some groceries and arrived home at 7:15, just in time to talk to Sarah over Facebook. It was still ridiculously hot as I tucked into my cottage pie an hour later.

We were all checked out and on the road by 9 a.m. The weather for our hour’s drive to Tarbert was much clearer than yesterday. The steepness of the winding roads through the mountains and past the lochs was quite delightful. We passed a few hardy souls on road bikes – and they were mostly women! Our bus get in line for the ferry to Uig on Skye and then we had an hour to explore Tarbert  – again. When everyone else made a beeline for the same coffee shop as the previous day I headed on up the main street to get views of the harbour. Many of the cottages do a good trade in B and B. There were a few houses with flowers in the garden but very few, so when I spotted a couple they drew my attention. The community center behind the coffee shop had a craft fair and I would have been tempted to buy some souvenirs but they didn’t take credit cards. Then I wandered over to the  new distillery, the first one to open in Harris, where a peat fire was very welcoming. There wasn’t time for a tour but I remembered Sarah going to one in Ireland, early one morning, so I had a coffee in honour of Sarah! I intended emailing it to her immediately but on asking the waitress for the internet password I was tole, ‘I can’t give it to you because we want to encourage you to socialize.’ So I socialized with my cup of coffee until it was time to board the ferry ‘Over the sea to Skye.’ The rain was coming down hard. It felt like sleet, and a couple of motorcyclists said they’d seen snow on the road on the higher ground.

It was a crossing of one and three quarter hours to Uig on Skye and we’d been told that we must have lunch on the ferry, so that we could get on with getting back to Edinburgh. It turned out that although Brightwater has been doing this itinerary for a number of years they recently placed things in a new order and we were only the second tour with the new order which accounted for Ali’s concern with timing.

Soon after we went through Kyle of Lochalsh we came upon a bad road traffic accident and for a while cars and tour buses turned around, backed up a very narrow lane and promptly got stuck. We ‘d no idea of the length of time we’d be stuck there. I was surprised to realise that the driver had no GPS or smart phone. Ali told of one time when the road had been closed for 8 hours in a similar situation. There are no back or side roads here! Eventually we got going again after an hour or more but we had to pass the remains of the vehicles involved which rather upset me.

As we traveled across Skye I kept seeing road signs which recalled my one and only visit to the island with my parents in 1971. I didn’t know I still knew the names of the places! We passed the commando monument that I have a photo of me, my friend Susan there.It was a 4 hour drive to Spean Bridge where we stopped for 30 minutes – just enough time to guzzle down a salad at the only place to eat there. I recalled a stop there with my mom at the woolen mill, and I’m pretty sure I bought some yarn to make a hat with!

We arrived in Perth at 8.55 but then had to wait for a different driver to be sent out because Ali had exhausted his driving time for the day because of the accident. It was a 35 minute wait for the new driver to show up. Ali didn’t have the new driver’s cell phone and the driver didn’t have Ali’s. A group member asked for a toilet while we waited (we’d just driven 2 1/2 hours) but Ali said the council toilets were closed for the night. I suggested we found a pub. ‘You can do that?’ everyone asked.There seemed an amazing reticence at doing that. outside the first pub I found was a bridal party.

We transferred buses and arrived at our departure hotel at 10:20. While all the others on our group checked in to the Marriott I got the concierge to call me a taxi to my Airbnb in Portobello. “It’ll cost a packet,” he remarked. I thought about saying, “Yes, but it’ll be cheaper than staying here,” but I kept that too myself but I was so tired that I almost inquired about the cost of a room. But I knew my new host, Lizzie, was excited for me to stay there because I was to be her first Airbnb guest. The ride cost 25 pounds.

 

The road to Portobello took me along Princess Street, Edinburgh’s downtown area and I saw the castle lit up high above the city. Even at this time – 11 p.m. crowds of people packed the streets.Lizzie, and her little dog, Daisy, welcomed me with a cup of tea and within 15 minutes I was all tucked up in a really comfy bed. I dreamt about the Queen and Lionel Ritchie . . . .er . . . .not together – but still . . .

 

10:15 p.m. in the hotel on Stornoway

I feel as if too much has happened in the last 2 days to write it down: it feels too daunting a task. When I left Hebden Bridge I’d got into a routine of spending a couple of hours each day, mostly in the evenings, sorting through photos and writing my blog but for the past few days it’s been after 10 pm before I’ve found a spare quiet minute to collect my thoughts.

Friday

Left the hotel at 7:45 where I watched everyone else tuck into plates laden with eggs, bacon, sausage, black puddings – really? Apparently McLeod and McLeod of Stornaway are famous for their black puddings. I thought my Bury was the place for back puddings? I learned that Stornaway puddings have less fat in them. In fact on the morning that we left the island the bus driver and a couple on our trip bought some to take home.

It was pouring with rain and blowing a gale as we set out to Tarbert where a narrow inlet forms the boundary between Lewis and Harris. I was grateful for the calm weather of yesterday. I learned later that in the whole month of may the boats had only been able to reach St Kilda on 5 occasions.

We drove along the Golden Road, a one track road with passing places, that derived its name from the high cost of its construction. The 12 miles takes over an hour to drive as it turns and winds past ponds and lochs, over rivers, all remnants of the flooding at the end of the last Ice Age.

Our first stop was at a church of St Clement at the extreme southern tip of Harris – Rodel. It was built in the sixteenth century by Alexander McLeod (any relation to the black puddings?) and it contains 3 wonderful tombs of knights, carved from black gneiss. Unlike the more usual white marble effigies these had a peculiar character to them, quite spooky.

One of my friends saw my photo of one of the knights and thought it was a mummy. I can see why. As an aside – It would have useful if the driver would have pointed out where the bathrooms were before we went to explore the church. I’d asked and he pointed vaguely behind the hill.

I thought he was indicating an al fresco affair and said I’d wait to the next stop – which he said was in 15 minutes time. Coming out of the church I saw the rest of the group heading en masse behind the hill. There was a real bathroom – with a visitors’ book! It’s little details like this that I think the driver should be aware of.

When we arrived in Tarbert the rain was even worse and everyone piled into one cafe that was already overflowing. I wanted some fresh air and to stretch my legs and see the town so despite the rain I took off, stopping first at the visitors’ center and then went window shopping in the small stores, mostly craft stores with lots of Harris tweed for sale. I’d never connected Harris tweed with the island of Harris before – duh! I got a tea to take

back on the bus and this caused quite a stir. It dawned on me that not one had I seen anyone eat or drink anything – not even a toffee – on the bus. In fact, no-one had even mentioned their trip to St Kilda. Bizarre. I wondered whether this was because the rest of the group are so well travelled ‘When I was in Rio last year . .  .” and “On my round the world air ticket for my 60th birthday” and  “Last time I was in St Petersburg.” Also several of the group had been to the Outer Hebrides before and it they wanted to come again it wasn’t too far.While, for me, coming from California this was a trip of a life-time.

 

Our next stop was the Blackhouse village at Gearrannan where our driver had arranged for lunch  for us and a talk about the site. We were immediately shown to the cafe which was itself in a blackhouse. These were one roomed stone buildings with walls up to 6 ft thick,

thatched, in which a family and the animals would share the space. Over the centuries windows were added in the roof – that was easier than trying to make an opening in the thick walls, and a chimney was added to direct the smoke away from the earlier central fire – which resulted in  the name ‘black house.’ The talk was given in a black house that had been furnished as it would have been around 1930. It recognized several items from my own home – a stone hot water bottle, a bedspread and pottery. The captain’s mother had been born in a renovate black house in 1947 and we passed several restored black houses that are lived in on our tour.

Over lunch – sandwiches (ah, yes, I remember these:  a transparent slice of ham and a lettuce leaf) – the conversation went from Sainsbury’s supermarkets  now acquiring their fish direct from Grimsby, to the problems of the bus driver keeping to his schedule of a 15 hour day. Still bizarre to me.

The village was on the edge of a cliff and I went to explore, scaring some rather large sheep. It was raining cats and dogs and I was glad I’d remembered to put leggings on under my trousers so that there was the possibility of retaining one layer of dry clothing. One of the 6 remaining houses is a hostel and others are for rent.

The next stop for the day was at Cardoway Broch. The function of a Scottish broch is still very much the cause for dispute amongst archaeologists. At one time they were thought to be fortifications erected during the Roman invasion but perhaps they were the ‘manor house’ of a clan.

[wpvideo cKsUzeaZ]

This is one of the best preserved. It has a double wall, the inner one being vertical and the outer one sloping inwards so that the space between the two walls becoming increasingly narrower as you go up. People lived in here, made Harris tweed, tended their animals.

Soon we were at the final stop for the day – the Standing Stones.

We were back at the hotel by 5:30 – time for a relaxing bath before dinner. I’d just settled in, listening to my favorite bath-time music: opera arias – when the hotel phone rang. Err. Forget it. Dinner  in the hotel restaurant was planned for 7. I got there on the dot and no-one from our group was there but every table was full, for this was the big night in town. the Red Hot Chili Peppers were playing in the marquee at the Hebcelt festival, and live music was happening in the hotel restaurant from 11p.m til 1 a.m. I inquired at the front desk and told that my party was to eat at 7:30. Ah, that explains the phone call, I thought. So I headed downtown to take photos of the festival goers. The sun was out – amazing! I went all the way up to the marquee and saw the pitch city (the very wet tent village) and then I heard bagpipes. I got back to the square and sure enough here were the dozen pipers with a fair sized crowd of onlookers – part of the festival. The wind was blowing strongly, of course, which produced some unexpected photos! I ran most of the way back to the

hotel to be on time for dinner and then headed back into town for a few more sunset-type photos, though it was still bright daylight at 10:30.