4:50. I’m sitting at a picnic table outside The Wellington, sipping a bitter shandy and listening to the drip, drip on the umbrella above me. “Bloody hell! It’s sunshine,” comments the man on the next table as a few stray rays light up the froth on my drink. “Boris Johnson? You must be fuckin’ jokin’. ‘Ee’s a pathological liar, ‘ee iz!” The conversation continues.
I’ve just spent the most amazing two hours in St Mary’s church, Elland. I almost didn’t come here. Well, Elland is not a tourist destination by any stretch of the imagination, but then I’m not a tourist.There seemed to be no redeeming features of this town half an hour’s bus ride south east of Halifax, except that my great, great, great grandparents were married here on January 30, 1837, Sarah Booth and Joseph Haigh. The vicar had told me that if the church wasn’t open there would be a sign on the door as to who would have the key. I didn’t expect that the sign would say that I could obtain the key from the sweet factory across the street, the very same Dobson’s sweet shop that Gary and mentioned when he learned of my trip to Elland.
After an initial panic that the factory seems all closed up I saw someone move inside and I found a buzzer next to the door. “I’ve come for a key to the church.” “Riiiight, luv,” and it was handed to me, just like that. No questions, no signing of name. At the church it was dark, very dark inside and I found myself somewhat comforted by the Beatles music
The helpful church warden, Glen Littlewood
blasting from the west tower where I eventually made out a ghost rising into the air – no, a man dressed entirely in white, on a ladder painting the walls. At least there was someone else besides me alive and kicking amidst the tombstones and memorial plaques. I read about the medieval stained glass (very rare), the 14th century arch (similar to the ones in Kirkstall Abbey dating from 11 something), the font, the misericords, and came to realize that of all the churches I’ve been to on this ancestry lark, this one has retained most of the features that my ancestors would have been familiar with.
After half an hour or so the painter noticed me and introduced himself as Glen Littlewood, the church warden. I explained my mission and as an afterthought asked who had the key to the organ and could I play it. It turns out that his father-in-law is the organist and he took over that role from his father in 1980. His father had held that position for 68 years. Their last name was Haigh – the same surname as my great, great, great grandfather Joseph who married Sarah Booth in 1837. Glen phoned his father-in-law and in ten minutes the octogenarian arrived happy to give me my own personal recital, beginning, of course, with Bach’s Prelude in d minor. I could see that this man could really play well, and he was very knowledgeable about the stops. The console was built in 1949 and there’s currently a fund-raising project in progress, but it sounded really wonderful to me. Then it was my 
turn and fortunately I found a copy of Bach’s 6 Little preludes that I can actually play in a book of music with his father’s name on it. He told me that he had met his wife when he was subbing during one summer at Ely Cathedral. His wife was a violinist who had studied at the Royal College of Music. Glen’s grandad had played trombone in the Brighouse and Rastick brass band and I shall look out for his name on my mom’s old brass band records that I still play. Glen brought out the church records and we found the marriage of Sarah and Joseph (the shoemaker) but neither of them were buried there.
Great curry nite at Wetherspoons, Halifax
Leaving Elland I went upstairs on the bus since I knew that I didn’t have to get off until the bus station. There’s a low bridge on the road where the bus has to pull into the center of the road to avoid hitting the bridge!
It’s 6:15 now and I’ve just managed to negotiate the ordering system at Wetherspoons. I’ve landed on Curry Nite and the place is buzzing. I think I just got the last free table. It must be a favorite after work hang out. It’s primarily filled with small groups of guys standing ignoring the TV where Jeremy Corbyn is refusing to resign. Large pipes clad in silver foil adorn the ceiling and lights suspended from a spider’s web of cables makes this one of Halifax’s trendiest night spots. For 6 pounds 50 I get chicken tikka masala, naan, 2 poppadums, pilau rice and a pint of cider. That’s a good deal! I can see T shirts, full on suits with ties, leather jackets, short sleeved shirts (because, remember, folks, this is the SUMMER), back packs, laptops cases, school uniforms and even a twin set with pearls. Lots of table sport bottles of wine in ice buckets, and I see a couple of guys alone but they’re playing the slot machines that line one wall. There are no, absolutely no women alone. Neither are there an Indians in here. That’s a bad reflection on the food, but there’s a large Indian restaurant right across the street. A period poster advertises Quality Street toffee, Rollos and Weekend, all made here in Halifax. In fact the factory is about 500 yards away from my table. I never knew that. “Is that chair spare?” Ok, so now I stop looking like a looser whose date hasn’t shown up. Now I just look like a looser with no date! I stand to leave Wetherspoons. That’s interesting . . . I can feel the effects of the pint of cider I’ve jus consumed. I have a whole tow minutes walk ahead of me now to get to Halifax Minster, scene of the next highlight of Heather’s day.
Setting up for the Black Dyke Mills band in Halifax Minster
Anyway it’s time I made my way over to Halifax Minster for the brass part of the day. For me, one of the highlights of last year’s trip to England was seeing the Black Dyke Mills Band perform in their original home – the Queensbury Mill. Tonight I have the opportunity to see the most recorded band in the world perform in a church where so many of my ancestors were married. CDs were available on a table and I half jokingly asked if it were possible to get one signed.’My name is Heather, and I’ve come all the way from California!’ ‘I’ll see what I can do” was the response. I found a seat in the fourth row of pews from the front, just behind the mayor and mayoress and settled back for the two hour concert of hymns and lighter music such as I only have eyes for you, and Mack the 
Knife. The soloists came to stand at the front of the band and conductor Nicholas Childs connected with his audience well with little quips here and there. Imagine my surprise when he announced, ‘We have a special guest with us tonight who has come all the way from California – so we know she’s a rich lady! Where are you?’ I had no alternative but to slowly raise my hand! Some of the musicians are still in college and the baritone soloist was making her first solo performance at the age of 18, since the leader of her section was participating in a concert at the Royal Northern School of Music. I had been concerned that the concert might sell out, but I guess going to a brass band concert is no big deal in this part of the world, even when it’s one of the most famous in the world, but there were tons of empty seats. At the end of the performance I picked up my personally signed CD.
Getting back home was a doddle. A five minute walk took me back to the bus station and the bus for Hebden Bridge was in. It’s the first time I’ve been out in the semi darkness and it was nice to see the lights of the isolated houses lit up on the hillsides. It reminded me of growing up at Affetside. I passed the Wainhouse Tower, too, with its floodlights.
I’m cold – seriously cold for the first time on my trip. It doesn’t help that several times every minute the doors into the market hall open to the outside and a blast of cold, wet air ruffles my hair and cools my cappuccino. I’m sitting by the outside door in Todmorden market hall, lured into this delightful coffee bar inside by the promise of ice cream, ice lollies, frappes on this cold wet morning. Valiant shoppers clad in their finest rain gear greet each other with ‘It’s like a monsoon’ and ‘I’m getting me sandbags ready’ inside of the normal ‘Yawreet?’ – and they’re not kidding. ‘A medium latte and a weak tea.’ Blasts from my past hit me like stray water droplets which are, incidentally, currently descending from the roof in ever increasing numbers, many of them erring in their journey and missing the strategically placed buckets on the passageway below. Well, I presume the buckets are place to catch the mini-waterfalls, though many of them seem destined to trip the unsuspecting shopper.’The usual.’
After lunch I was undecided whether to take a walk in Luddenden Foot, retracing some of Branwell Brontë’s footsteps or go to find Hardcastle Crags. The latter won after I sought advice at the tourist information center in town. It was a place that I had heard my mum talk about a lot. She may even have taken me there as a very small child but I have no recollection of it. I followed what was billed as ‘an easy walk, mainly on the flat.’ It was anything BUT flat, and what I had mistakenly thought was a gentle half hour stroll along the river (well, Beccie said it was) turned out to be a 6 1/2 mile hike.
I passed through the square where I saw Chris with her pro-Palestinian banners that she’d been designing last night, and then went off into the woods with my map. Within 15 minutes it started to pour down. I mean, really pour down. 2 elderly gentlemen chatting by their allotment said,’Yaw right, luv?’ and that was that! I had flights of steep narrow stone stairs to contend with, rock hopping, mud squelching, cobbled pack horse bridges as I followed the river up to Midgehole,a tiny hamlet, before entering National Trust land and the entrance to Hardcastle Crags. I followed a wide boring path that was obviously a service road, and the one mile to Gibson Mill was totally wrong. I was spurred on, however, 
by the sign that said Cafe Open til 4 p.m. It was 3:15 so I made as good a time as possible and arrived in time for tea and a wander around the weaving sheds, that had been turned into tea rooms by the time my mom went. at one time it had also served as a roller skating rink. The view from the mill pond was lovely and the reflections were perfect. I chatted with a lady who was giving directions to workmen and she apologized for the poor sign-posting at the entrance to the park. I should have followed the mill walk for a more interesting route. I did that on the way back, at one point in the darkness of the woods, besides the rushing river a pterodactyl flew overhead following the line of the water. experiencing yet another deluge as I passed the defunct bowling club.
messenger – thank you, Danny. It’s free! The phone calls I’d made back home were costing me a pound per minute.
a giant map (for a blue plaque ceremony) and helped to colour in a giant drawing of the town. I drew myself on it and labeled it ‘Crazy Californian lady!’ I was photographed and interviewed by the festival event people.
Hogwart’s School in the Harry Potter movies. We walked back down to the center of town, again along some steep cobbled road, arriving back at the station at 6:30.
where George Gledhill had lived but which has been demolished. Don remembers one up, one down houses there in which a family of six would live. He knew of Bath Street, where members of my family lived and gave me some ideas of where to find out more information about the baths after which it was named. Lunch was taken sitting on the
When the walk was over interestingly the people who chose to go to get a drink at the local hostelry were the women – hmmm. They chose a Methodist church which has been converted by Wetherspoons into a large pub! The organ and gallery are still intact – quite stunning, in fact.
In the evening the special light was bringing its warmth to the canal so I took a stroll for half an hour, timing my dinner perfectly for the Ireland v Italy UEFA soccer game. Chris got very excited during the game despite claiming she never watches it.
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