3:50 I’m feeling a little stuck for something to do here in the centre of Bradford. I’ve just finished a two hour project making sure my name goes down in history. I sat with 16 others working on a tapestry in Bradford Cathedral! I’d seen the event advertised when I went there for a lunch-time organ recital two weeks ago, and so today I just turned up and 
was welcomed with open arms. Everyone who contributes their needle-working skills is named in a book that will be kept with the tapestry. There’s no telling how long it will take to finish, but a similar finished work of art currently adorns the altar. It ‘s green but there are a series of 4 for each of the seasons. The man who was sitting next to me has the reputation for being the best needle-worker in the group and he told me that he can do 180 stitches per hour. After watching me get started he said, ‘I can see you’ve done this before.’
Tea (and biscuits, of course) were served halfway through the workshop and I noticed the organist having tea too. For the second half of the sewing we were accompanied by the organist practicing for an upcoming recital in Brighouse. Before I left I asked the assembled group for suggestions as to what I should do for the next three hours since my return train ticket is only valid after 6 p.m. Someone suggested I wander round a district called Little Germany which has large ornate buildings, reminders of Bradford’s world 
class wool heritage and its German population. Another suggested going into Waterstones
book shop and cafe because it’s housed in the old Woolshop – and that’s where I’m currently sitting There’s a life-size statue of an American man but someone has put a witch’s hat on him. Ha, ha. I didn’t get to the third suggestion which was to visit a former church which is now the Delius Center for the arts. I was a little confounded two week’s ago when I came across a statue of Delius in the Asian Gallery. I had completely forgotten that this quintessential British composer was, in fact, a son of Bradford from german extraction. Wouldn’t you have though he’d be named as one of the famous people from Bradford along with Titus Salt, the Brontës, David Hockney and . . . .? I explored Kirkgate market where the manicurists (all male) were doing a roaring trade. So were the kiosks doing eyebrow threading for girls wearing hijabs. Many women are wearing full-face veils.
5:30 I’m sitting outside Wetherspoons on the City Park plaza.It’s directly opposite the Magistrates’ Court and the guy sitting at the next table has apparently just appeared in court, his girlfriend having accused him of beating her up. ‘She were fuckin’ fit an’ awl.’ He’s also accused of kidnapping her daughter in the back seat of his car. He has to reappear in court tomorrow at 9 a.m. Meanwhile two young women sit at another table drinking beer while their children cavort on the sculptures and fountains in the park. One toddler in a pram at Wetherspoons is anxious to join her siblings. I burly guy on a bike is
If you have a good imagination this could be the Houses of Parliament.
showing off his wheelies and teaching a young teen how to do it, while overhead on the big screen (that shows Live from the Met operas for free, and the Olympic Games) I can watch the current men’s doubles at Wimbledon. Four girls, each of a different ethnicity, in smart school uniforms ‘hang out’ on the benches.
I waited until 6:30 to catch the train home where Chris was just leaving to attend a friend’s poetry reading. I watched a bit of Michael Palin Around the World in 80 days (in Egypt and Saudi Arabia) and a bit of Missing Joseph – one of the Detective Lindley series – before I realised that that was the book I brought with me to read on the trip (and haven’t opened it once!). I booked a night at an Airbnb in Edinburgh for the night before I meet the tour. I need to plan for the night after the tour. Perhaps I should stay there for an extra day and research my ancestral connection with Edinburgh. My great great grandfather, Robert Dean who was a station master at Patricroft moved to the Duddingston area of Edinburgh near Portobello. In 1856 he was still in Patricroft but in 1858 his son John Thomas Fielding Dean was born in Berwick, Berwickshire (now the county of Lothian). His next 4 children were born in Portobello (1859-1865) and then he returned to Patricroft. I presume that he got a promotion and moved north since his title was railway goods superintendent in the 1861 census,at Portobello, a step up from a railway office clerk in 1851 at Patricroft. The superintendent had the responsibility of managing the transportation and delivery of goods that were carried by the railway company. Porters would have worked under him. Here’s his uniform.
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Continuing on our way Gary spotted a group of Highland cattle and I saw a large black and white bird making quite a noise at us, and then I saw, what I’d mistaken for sheep’s wool on the grass, several baby birds. I think the mother bird was trying to get us to follow her away from the chicks.
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.
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.
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.
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