What do you mean you’ve never heard of it? It’s a traditional West Yorkshire game in which you wear new white sneakers and then walk 4 miles along the Rochdale canal towpath after a heavy rainstorm. During this escapade I exchanged greetings with 33 humans, assorted canines, seven wild Canadian geese, two tame muscovy ducks and a lone male mallard who seemed eager to attract my attention (could it be because my phone’s ringtone is set to Quacks?)
St Michael’s church, Mytholmroyd
All coincidences lead somewhere: A few weeks ago Hebden Bridge post office closed for 2 weeks for refurbishment, so I walked two miles to Mytholmroyd in order to post birthday cards. Someone had mentioned that Mytholmroyd church was worth taking a look at, so I tried the door, it opened and a lady showed me round. Turned out she is the vicar and she invited me to the church’s rededication ceremony on November 5th, following the devastating floods on Boxing Day, 2015. November 5th dawned sunny so it seemed a good idea to walk the two miles to the service. I arrived just as the bells stopped ringing, heralding the beginning of the service. I ran the gauntlet of TV crew and
TV crew
photographers in the South Porch and grabbed a pew near the front. I’d never seen so many people in a church apart from at a Christmas service.The Archbishop of York was resplendent in his mitre and robes and during the service the sun shone on the altar flowers and the gold leaf on the mosaics – beautiful. I sat reading the memorials to the
Altar in its finest garb
fallen in both World Wars and thought of my granddad who had taken his own life on November 5th, 1933, probably because the sound of fireworks on bonfire night brought back to him the sounds of warfare in the Belgian trenches. It seemed highly fitting that I should be in church today.
This is the only time I’ve known an organist to bring his own organ!
After the service I went to talk to the organist. I knew that the organ had been ruined by the flood and that the church was using a small portative organ, but this sounded too rich for that little organ. It transpired that the organist had brought in this organ himself. I told him that I might be interested in lessons and we exchanged business cards. He is the director of the Halifax Organ Academy and teaches at his home in Mytholmroyd. As everyone filed out of the church I chatted to a lady who suddenly said, “I know you.” It was the landlady at the Crown Pub, right next to my apartment. I’d gone for a drink early
The Archbishop of York and the landlady of The Crown
one evening and the only other person in there was a guy who had been making the most revolting burping sounds. I expected at every minute that he would throw up. The landlady asked him quietly to leave, which he did – quietly, but he reappeared five minutes later with his heckles raised and a very aggressive attitude. The landlady looked to me for support and I’m glad I was there for her. . . and all that happened because Hebden Bridge post office had been closed!
Perched on a hilltop, isolated from the ancient village of Sowerby lies Steep Lane Chapel. Lies, is the wrong word. It clings to the hillside, shuddering and resisting the attempts by the buffeting gales to pitch it, hook, line and sinker, down into the valley below. This was my second visit to the chapel with the same two friends, both who grew up in Sowerby. Last time in the summer we braved a strong wind to walk to the chapel to see and brass band and partake in an amazing afternoon tea. This time it’s autumn and the misty drizzle was swirling around t’tops as we battled again the northerly gusts, which seemed occasionally to be in danger of knocking us off our feet. I was reminded of the poem: “The north wind doth blow, and we shall have snow, and what will the robin do then, poor thing? He’ll sit in a barn and keep himself warm, and hide his head under his wing, Poor thing!” Today is Steep Lane Chapel’s Autumn Fayre and the promise of another afternoon tea was too tempting to refuse.
When I looked through the window this morning everything looked fuzzy. I realised that the windows were covered in condensation, something I’d forgotten existed after living with double glazing for the last 12 years! The thermometer outside registered a chilly 42F as I set off for the station to catch the train to Manchester. On the canal the boats were spewing smoke from their furnaces, but I have to admit that it looked very 
picturesque. The new Stoller Hall, the recital hall at Chetham’s School of Music is directly across the road from Victoria station. The hall was filled with far more students than members of the public. Some of the students couldn’t have been more than 8 years old so it was asking a lot of them to sit still for the hour’s recital and then a two hour masterclass but they seemed very used to this sort of thing. I remember one of my classmates at Bolton School, a vocalist called Freda Farnworth, leaving when she was about 13 to go to Chetham’s. Sir Humphrey Chetham (10 July 1580 – 1653) was an English 
Rachmaninov before launching into Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition. I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard the original piano version of this work. I’m far more familiar with Ravel’s orchestrated version and Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s version. (Keith Emerson, by the way, was a native of Todmorden where I’d spent the previous morning at the market). Simon’s performance was magical! He made sounds on the piano that I’d never heard before – amazing! In the masterclass that followed four students from year 12 and 13 performed Russian pieces as part of this festival marking the 100th anniversary of the Russian revolution. The final student , Elias Ackerley, played Rachmaninov’s Sonata #2 – unbelievable. Within an hour of the final note I was sitting in the White Lion in Hebden Bridge where I bumped into Nicola and friends for the first time since I took residence.
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