Author: hmcreativelady (Page 47 of 48)

Met up with Moy who was leading a group hike exploring the areas of woodland and moorland above Todmorden (birthplace of Keith Emerson, of Emerson, Lake and Palmer). Only one other person showed up, but he, like Moy, was a wealth of information about the history of the landscape that opened up before us. The hike led steeply upwards where we were rewarded with the views that are one of the main things I miss about England. We passed many isolated farms that had once processed wool directly from the herd to woven cloth. We followed some of the pack horse trails on which  the finished cloth would would have been taken to the markets, or cloth halls as they are called here. I learned lots about the conservation and control of  the woodland, especially  important with the problems of flooding in the narrow, highly populated valleys. We came to Dobroyd Castle. It’s now an outward bound school for kids from all over England. We passed a group from Wolverhampton. Moy’s daughter had been there last week but Moy herself had never been inside. We knocked on the door and were told that because they are responsible for children they couldn’t let us in. I put on my best American accent and said that I’d come all the way from California and would just looooove to see inside an English castle. The door opened and we were able to step inside and look at the amazing stone carvings. Of course this ‘castle’ is a folly, being being by a Victorian wealthy mill owner, John Fielden (1822-1893) but the opulence of the decoration was amazing. The owner’s story is interesting because he married a common mill girl. But that’s another story . . .  .

Well, it’s September now so it’s probably time to tell the John Fielden story.He developed Waterside  cotton Mill in Todmorden which was possibly the largets factory in the country at the time. His family home, Dawson Weir was firmly fixed amid the mill workers’ cottages. He was a Unitarian.  He raised 7 children  within the working community. Ruth was born in 1827 and married Fielden in 1857. He built the castle for Ruth and they moved in in 1869. He arranged for a  treat for the 300 men who had built it at the Lake Hotel – Hollingworth Lake. They had a special train accompanied by brass band. The castle has 66 rooms, 17 stables and cost 71 thousand pounds to build.  In 1873 Fielden was involved in a horse riding accident  and remained crippled for the rest of his life. Ruth became an alcoholic. She died aged 50 and was buried in an unmarked grave. He married Ellen Mullinson eight months later. It was very much a society wedding. He died at the castle in 1893 at the age of 71. In 1995 a group of monks moved into the castle and remained there until 2007.

See todmordenandwalsden/quakers on rootsweb.

I asked if it is again possible to walk from Todmorden back to Hebden  along the tow path. Gary suggested we find out. Together we had lunch in a great little coffee house where I got my first cheese toastie of the trip and then we set off back to Hebden. It should have been around 4 miles but several times the towpath was closed because of the reconstruction of the canal so we had to keep detouring onto the road for a stretch. However, there was lots to see and Gary was a lively conversationalist. He’d been a printer, got made redundant in his early 50’s,found work as a janitor in a college, saw stuff on the blackboards he thought might be interesting, got a Bachelor’s degree, and a masters and then a PhD from Ruskin college Oxford!

Back a’ th’ mill  at 5  I had dinner and then went to the Hebden’s Little Theater production of Children’s Hour, precisely one minute’s walk from my mill. The subject was a lesbian relationship between 2 teachers in a girls’ boarding school – Hebden Bridge is known as the lesbian capital of England.

My goodness what a day! I left at 9, deciding to risk not wearing my raincoat. The half hour bus ride  to Halifax was quite eventful. Me to bus driver, ” I’d like a weekly Rover’s ticket, please.” Driver, incredulous, ” What??” Me – repeat the question. Driver, “Oh, bloody hell. Just ger on and sit yerself down.” I did. Halfway to Halifax the bus was stopped at a bus stop when we were side swiped by a lorry. No-one hurt. Everyone just got off quietly and waited for the next bus. I, of course, didn’t have a ticket. Ah, what fun. And so on to Halifax bus station, where I boarded another bus to Pellon Lane. I’d been told to ask for Pellon social club. I did and asked the driver the price of the ticket,  $1.90 I was told. I handed over a $10 note. What’s that? asked the driver. My fare, I suggested. Well I don’t have any change – just ger on. This is an excellent way to travel. I should try it again 🙂

Arriving at Christ Church Mt Pellon I was welcomed by the parishioners enjoying their coffee, tea,  biscuits and cakes. I discovered that only the area directly around the church is called Mt Pellon. Pellon Lane is a long road, primarily an industrial mess now sprinkled between stone terraces housing  primarily Muslims, with great food and clothing stores. I stayed for the service which was accompanied by an amazingly out of tune organ.   I chatted to the organist and while she went off for tea I was able to play. I even found a copy of my favorite Bach Preludes and Fugues! I  then wandered into the graveyard to find my great grandfather, Ishmael Nutton (1835-1876) and his wife Elizabeth Ann Leeming. I found his gravestone easily, though it was well covered with moss. He had died at aged 40from alpaca poisoning. Was it of any significance that his was the only grave sporting an empty beer can? I wondered.

As we all left one of the gentlemen offered to show me round the area. I thought that meant a short stroll around the village but he ended up taking me on a car tour of the area taking me anywhere I wanted to go and stopping at any place I thought would be a good photo opportunity.  He was a wealth of information, and took me to see the reconstructed gibbet in Halifax that I had read about last night. Halifax was the last place in England to use this form of execution. The practice was retained to protect the cloth trade. The first person to be executed here was John of Dalton in 1286 and the last execution took place on April 30, 1650. I asked to go to Warley town so I could find The

The Halifax gibbett

Grange where Patrick Brontë had lived before he moved to Haworth, and then we leisurely drove to Southowram so I could see the house which was where Emily Brontë was governess for 6 months.

I offered to buy him lunch at the Maypole in Warley Town – very posh. His nephew is a prominent makeup artist and regularly does make-up shoots for David Beckham and Barbara Windsor. He’d worked in construction and had worked on building Haley Court, the high rise flats built in 1966 that my great Aunt Lil had lived in. I had a black pudding salad and passion fruit cider from New Zealand – which turned out to be the only black pudding I had on the trip.

He dropped me off at St John’s, Warley, where coffee and conversation was in full swing. There I met someone who was brought up in Entwistle, at Wayoh Farm. She been married at Turton church in 1954. Another lady had visited to Soquel, a village just outside Santa Cruz.  Neal, the vicar, had

Neal, the vicar at St John’s, Warley

motorbiked across the U.S. a few years ago with his wife. He mentioned he was from Wakefield so I asked if there was any way I could get into Wakefield Prison. It turned out that he’d been the chaplain there before becoming vicar at St John’s and St Hilda’s. Since it’s a top security prison now he doubted I could gain access but he did tell me where I could get the best views of the prison from  – the platform of the railway station. He also explained which buildings would have been there when George Gledhill ( my great, great, great, great grandfather) was imprisoned there. Margaret offered to drive me back to Hebden Bridge.

For a few moment in the evening the sun came out for the first time. I dashed out to take these two photos from outside my mill.

A few random notes for the day.

1. The woman who won the Great British Bake Off made the Queen’s 90th birthday cake.
2. Underdwellings are a peculiarity of housing found only (?) in Hebden Bridge. It’s when one house is built above another, the hillside being so steep that the top house faces one street and the bottom house faces a different street. The only other place I’ve seen this is in Virginia City, Nevada.

As I stepped out of my mill this morning I observed a cat, highly excited by the recycling tray at our front door. On further inspection the cat was after a lovely little mouse who was delighted to pose for a photograph!

I actually set my alarm for 8:15 this morning because I needed to catch the train to Sowerby Bridge to be in time for the coffee morning at Christ Church.  It was less than five minutes’ walk to the railway station, first walking along the canal towpath and then through Calder homes Park.  As I waited for it to arrive I went into the waiting room at Hebden Bridge and there was – a piano, just waiting to be played upon. There was even music on it – Wachet Auf and When I an Laid in Earth. I just went to see Dido and Aeneas at UCSC opera last weekend. There’s a cafe too, right on the platform, that serves bacon butties. Note to self: must try one. Ed. never did 🙁  The return ticket was two pounds ninety. I break off writing this to see the BBC news reporting a mass shooting in Orlando, riots  at the UEFA soccer in Paris and a stabbing in Paris.

Reconnected with Peter, the friendly churchwarden at Christ Church Sowerby Bridge, who had arranged for me to play the organ there last year. Only two people were there when I arrived but  we were soon joined others and I got a wonderfully warm welcome.  This place is very special to me since  so many of my ancestor were baptized and married here.  I joined the coffee morning and was welcomed with open arms. The church was rebuilt in 1821 and reopened on May 24th of that year – my birthday. Only the communion table is left from the Old Brig Chapel. It’s dated 1520 so my ancestors would have known it. I met the vivacious pastor, Angela Dick, who has been there for 6 years. I decided not to stay for the service and so people recommended that I try Gabriel’s cafe at The Moorings for lunch. It was delightful, and is located in the old lock keeper’s cottage. I ordered a jacket potato with cheese, something I’d been looking forward to as being quintessentially English, so imagine my disappointment when my server came back a few minutes later to say they were all out of potatoes. This is Yorkshire – not Ireland in the 1840’s.  I settled for a cheese and pickle sarni, and as I ate I consulted my bus route map and realised that I could get to Triangle quite easily. Meanwhile it was pouring down outside –  good weather for ducks, and there were lots of them, mostly with babies. I walked along the canal for a while, taking photos of the rain. The British couldn’t understand that at all, but in California we’ve had little rain in the last 5 years.

[wpvideo hjp9gcON]

So on to Triangle, where Isabella Acornley , my great, great, great aunt was born in 1837. It was a tiny village outside Halifax. She had eventually ended up living in a

1851 census showing Isabella Acornley, my gt, gt, gt, aunt born in Triangle Yorkshire in 1837. Aged 13 she is a power loom weaver in Edgworth

weaver’s  cottage in Mt Pleasant in Edgworth, across from The Black Bull,  and Rachel had visited it last year. I found a bus stop and asked the young man if he knew Triangle.

He did. He told me where to get off  the bus – and be sure to visit the cricket club! When you look up Triangle on Wikipedia the photo is of the cricket club! The only pub – the Triangle,  duh- is closed.There’s a town meeting planned to discuss its future. I would have gone but only residents of Triangle were invited. Two lorries hit it in quick succession and made it unstable. but what was this? The door seemed to be slightly ajar. I gave it a little tug and as my eyes adjusted to the dark interior I could make out the bar, seating, even glasses hanging above the bar. Just like a Nevada ghost town. At that moment I glimpsed a fluorescent object moving at speed towards me, and I beat a hasty retreat as a workman banged the door shut. I was disappointed that I hadn’t been quicker with my camera.

The Triangle pub – closed forever?

Meanwhile the cricket club is the only hostelry in town. Pubs in England serve quite a different function from pubs in the US. Here they are a place for business meetings, general conversations, and a one time they had books when people couldn’t afford to purchase their own. As I looked around me  I realised that the landscape surrounding me was akin to that of Edgworth: steep green hills, scattered stone terraced houses. The fast cars on the narrow country road were frightening, especially after finding out that the two lorries had crashed into the pub – a much larger object than little me. I noticed a sign a Bed and Breakfast establishment which, judging from the gatepost, promised to be an imposing building, so I gladly turned off the scary road and walked down the imposing driveway lined with flowering rhododendrons. The house, Thorpe House, had been built in 1804 by a  mill owning family, and is currently run by three sisters, descendants of the mill

Thorpe House – now and B and B

owners.  It was seventy five pounds a night for B and B. It had been home to Arnold Williams, Liberal MP for Sowerby in the 1920s, and during World War II served as officers’ quarters for the Royal Engineers, after which it lay empty for 12 years. In 1957, the mansion’s dilapidated and run-down state was repaired and it was converted into a home for elderly people, which it remained until 1994 when it was closed down as a retirement home. I managed to find a short movie about it:

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/four-in-a-bed/on-demand/58915-037.

Thorpe Mill, on the river,  was just below the house. Following the bus stop guy’s recommendation I ventured down a narrow, very steep path, expecting to arrive at the club house of the cricket ground. Instead, I found myself confronted by a large gate through which I could get a full view of the immaculate cricket ground. As I peered through the gates a lady drove up with her excitable dog who were out for their daily walk in spite of the pouring rain and she chatted as she showed me a more interesting way back into town, one that would not only give me a bird’s eye view of the cricket ground, but one that required me to do my mountain goat impression – the first of many in the next month.

Sarah and friend – my walking companions in Triangle

It was a good job I’d got my hiking boots on. In fact, they became my default footwear for the next month. The trail was steep and very muddy but we got into a good conversation as we walked back into Sowerby Bridge. She’d attended Manchester uni and currently runs a storage company in Hebden Bridge which came within 4 inches of being flooded. Can you imagine that? Putting all your precious possessions into a storage unit that gets washed away? The businesses on either side of her were washed away. Her husband works for Calderdale Authority and is currently in China promoting tourism in Calderdale to the Chinese.

Back in Sowerby Bridge a train was just arriving and within a few minutes I was back in Hebden Bridge where I caught glimpses of the sun for the first time since arriving in England. I stopped off at the cafe in the park on my walk back t’th’ mill and enjoyed a proper cup of tea – that means sitting down. I’d been on the go for 5 hours, non-stop. After a short nap I popped out to the Co-op for an Indian take-out, delicious. The evening was passed at the Hebden Bridge Picture House seeing Tom Hiddleston in ‘I saw the light.’ I’m not a country music fan but I am a Tom Hiddleston fan, but the film didn’t move me. I though it rather quaint that it was cash only, and they served glasses of wine, and mugs of tea and coffee – none of this paper nonsense.

Coffee morning at Christ Church, Sowerby Bridge with vicar Angela Dick

June 12

So here I am tucked up in bed in a former dye mill, stone built in the 1800’s. It’s fitting that I’m spending a month living in a renovated mill since the ancestors that I’m researching were all woollen workers – first of all in the home and later, with the onflux of the Industrial Revolution in the mills themselves. My great great grandfather, Ishmael Nutton died at the age of 39 leaving a wife and three young children.   The cause of death given on the death certificate is ‘Blood poisoning from sorting Alpaca wool. Exhaustion.’ Apparently the fibers of the alpaca were much finer than sheep’s wool and could be inhaled by the workers, causing abrasions to the lungs, rather like the results of exposer to asbestos. To avoid the problem workers were told to grow long mustaches to filter the fine hairs and prevent them from being inhaled!

My room

It’s been an eventful two days of travel. I set off from home at 8 a.m. on Saturday. Alice had offered to drive me to SFO. I changed planes in Toronto – the ipad airport!  – and landed in Manchester where it was trying – desperately – to rain. Thwarted in my search for a toasted tea cake I settled for a paper cup of tea from Greggs while I reassembled my bags. My ‘carry-on’ roller bag had been deemed not carry-on-able by Air Canada so I’d had to have it stowed. We were eventually reunited in Manchester but I must admit I was concerned about the fate of my lap-top and my other “essentials.” I mean, that’s why I’d chosen to put them into my carry-on, so that they would remain in sight at all times.

With the wonderful help of a Welsh information desk clerk and a young Indian who ran the check-out at W. H. Smith’s within 45 minutes they had figured out how to insert a new Sim card into my phone. I told them they both deserved extra Brownie points.

At the rail terminal it took longer to be issued with a train ticket to Hebden Bridge than it had done to get through security. Unfortunately I had to change stations in Manchester, a hassle I’d done with Rachel last year. I had no problems finding willing guys to help with my bags whenever I needed a strong arm. All I just needed to do was ask.  And I feel that that’s what I’ve been doing all day – something that I’m always reticent to do at home, but it’s certainly paid off today.

Manchester was packed with Parklife Fest teens many of whom were wearing very little at all – and carrying open bottles of wine and beer on the Metro-link and the trains.I chatted to a group of girls who were squashed against me like sardines in a can. I was told it was “all ‘appnin’ ” at Heaton Park. 70,000 fans were expected during the weekend causing disruption to public transport.

I had intended walking from the railway station to Canal Works but soon realized that a combination of cobble stones, mud and puddles were not conducive for rolling two roller bags for half a mile, so I called for a taxi. But the driver couldn’t find Hebble End so I called Paula and she arrived, brolly beclad, to collect me from that bastion of British consumerism, the Co-op. It was a walk of one minute along the canal tow path to my new home. There I met with Chris and Paula and the arrangements were explained to me over a welcoming cup of Yorkshire tea. Within 20 minutes they were offereing to do a house exchange with me! The room that I had signed up to rent through AirBnB was in Paula and Beccie’s apartment but their next door neighbour, Chris,  had offered to house me since I was staying for a whole month. The major differences were that  my room in Chris’s apartment didn’t have a window, and there was no TV in my room, but I did have my own bathroom.

After unpacking I took a walk in the rain along the tow path   directly outside the factory. It was slippery and muddy underfoot. I passed several families of ducks and geese with young duckling and  goslings. There was even a blue heron. It was very quiet in a relaxing sort of way – Andante tranquillo. I passed a few other people, walking in the rain on this late Sunday afternoon. The only worries I had were 1. My battery would fail on my iphone and 2. I’d slip on the muddy cobbles and fall into the canal.

Stubbings Wharf pub was already buzzing and when I went in to peruse the menu I found it was already fully booked for the evening, even though it was only 5:15. So for dinner Paula recommended the Old Gate pub which was very much alive and kicking. Until the disastrous flood on Boxing Day 2015 there were 10 pubs in town – far fewer now: tug boats are still dredging the canal. I was looking for somewhere quiet where I could possibly find a dark nook hidden away and write my journal and eat some delicious food. By no means can this  spot be described as quiet but I find that rhubarb cider is delicious and is excellent when combined with a ‘Fish Butty and Chips.’

View from the tow path

If I stop for a moment to contemplate it all feels a bit surreal but I’ve always found that   – with a combination of jet-lag and a return to my old culture. The Queen’s 90th birthday celebrations on TV make a stark contrast to the biggest mass shooting in U.S history today in Florida.