Category: Uncategorised (Page 1 of 15)

. . .from an article I wrote in 2011. I’ve just been informed that the church where my great grandfather was organist and choir master for 34 years is going to close permanently. This has caused me to delve into some of my research studies about him, Frank Henry Denton, and his musical background.

Hymn composed by  John Hill’s brother, James, who was the leader of the bell ringers at All Soul’s church. My great grandfather, John Hill (1841-1897), and hiswife, Maria (1868?-1902). They owned a piano.    

Although Sarah was the only one of her generation to take up music professionally Sarah’s sister, Rachel, played violin and piano throughout her schooldays and sister Anna played trumpet and piano.

So, how should I celebrate this momentous birthday? Or, perhaps I should say how do I want to mark the day? Inevitably I thought back to my other significant birthdays – my 50th, with a big party in my home on El Curtola in Lafayette, my 60th with my girls picnicing by San Francisco Bay. But what to do this time? I’d been contemplating taking a cruise around the British coast for a while. For me it must sail out of Liverpool because of the history associated with that port over so many generations. When  I found that the 5 day cruise that I’d originally contemplated was fully booked I ended up with a ten day Ambassador cruise calling at places that I’d already visited with the exception of Honfleur in France. But then I asked myself ‘Why shouldn’t I revisit a place I’ve already been to?’ And that’s how it happened.

DAY 1 Liverpool to Guernsey

First the train to Manchester and then train to Liverpool. I’d been freaking out all week about ‘missing the boat’ quite literally so I gave myself plenty of time. I took a little stroll around Manchester cathedral to kill some time in the city and then got a train to Liverpool reaching Lime Street station through the railway cutting with its amazing rock formations in a multitude of colours. Once in Liverpool I began writing limericks to pass the time, something I haven’t done in a while. I had a snack from M&S in the station and then took a taxi to the dock on Princes Gardens. The taxi driver wanted to know all about my cruise and said he wished he was coming with me! 

Ambassador’s Ambition seemed enormous as I approached, but boarding was incredibly easy. I was issued with a boarding card which is used for everything on the ship from boarding to getting through customs, and all the payments encountered whilst on board. I purchased an Internet package which I was assured would cover all messaging but I was to discover it didn’t include sending photos, or regular messaging, or give me access to email or Facebook. My cabin, however, was delightful, sun streaming through my window as I entered.

My big rolly bag was waiting outside my cabin. I’d sent it by a courier service. After briefly unpacking and getting acquainted with my cabin – I initially thought the safe was a microwave! – I went up to the top deck, deck 11, to get ready to watch our progress from directly opposite the Liver building, along the River Mersey to the open sea.The presence  of all those millions of people who’d travelled this route before was very much with me. Even before we’d left the dock people were already spread out on the sun loungers on the spa deck, some covered in towels or blankets. There was even a woman in the hot tub reading a book! 

I’d requested the second sitting for dinner but I didn’t expect it to be quite so late – 8:15, and that was just for the first of four courses – so I sat in one of the many lounges and settled down with a bottle of cider to take in the day. All that anxiety and worry about getting to the boat on time and having the correct documentation could now be thrown overboard. As I relaxed and people-watched I noticed a couple who reminded me of my former husband and his wife, and as destiny took its course they came to sit by me. They were from the Ribble Valley. We started a conversation and lo and behold the man had been an extra on the set of the TV series The Gallows Pole just like me. We didn’t recognise each other, but what a coincidence. They’d also recently visited Heptonstall Museum where I sometimes volunteer and where I took Rachel on her visit at Christmas time. 

I’d been assigned to the second sitting of dinner at The Buckingham restaurant, table 92. There were only two other people on our table even though it was set for six, which was rather disappointing. This was  made even more so by the presence of one very opinionated lady whose topic of conversation began with why Dolly Parton is a gay icon, and another lady with mobility issues who barely said a word. I’d been very surprised by the number of people on board needing walkers, walking sticks and wheelchairs. How wonderful that they feel confident enough to take a cruise, often by themselves. It sort of puts my anxiety into perspective. So far everyone I’ve spoken to has been on multiple cruises. I haven’t found a single novice like me who has only been on one before and that was twenty years ago. Several had been on the Alaskan Inside Passage cruise that I’d taken with my daughters. The food at dinner was excellent – sea bass, my new favourite, but a disappointing Eton mess – not enough meringue. A lot of the conversations around me were concerning the drinks packages that seemingly everyone except me appeared to have purchased. I thought the packages were outrageously expensive but then I only have one drink per day. Here people were happily buying a bottle of wine each evening for just themselves. 

We didn’t finish dinner until about 10:15 and I went to check out the evening’s entertainment – the Eternal Valentines, a married couple, singing and playing keyboard and guitar. It was a short half hour set but quite pleasant. Then it was off the see a game show called State of the Nation in the Palladium theatre – most entertaining since it involved audience participation. 

DAY 2 – At sea

I braved The Borough Market for breakfast, a self service cafe which was very crowded. Having found some fruit and yoghurt I couldn’t find anywhere to sit so I sat outside, carefully trying to avoid the windy side of the ship, even though it was a beautiful sunny day with a calm sea. Then I went to explore the ship, finding a sauna, exercise room and shopping centre. I retreated to my room and began the embroidery project I’d brought with me, a cross stitch kit of an owl that I though might fit in with Anna’s colour scheme for Jude. Mid morning I attended a presentation about Guernsey and Honfleur, our first two ports. The strategy for exiting the boat was given plus a description of the shore excursions that were available. 

Then it was back to Borough Market for cheese and biscuits and a cold meat selection and then back to my room to do some more embroidery. I tried putting on the TV but the channels available were unappealing – BBC News, Sky News, Sky Sports News, and Prime movies but without a menu to check the schedule  to see what and when the movies were showing. 

I returned to the lounge to watch the Eternal Valentines again and got talking to another couple and inevitably the opening question is ‘Where are you from?’ I’d already met someone from Burnley who had worked in both Bolton and Bury, so I tried to describe Affetside’s location. She hadn’t heard of it but asked if it was near The Last Drop –  I’d only had my wedding reception there! So, confronted with this ‘new’ couple I asked where they were from. ‘Torquay’, came the response. ‘Ooo, I don’t know anything about the South of England. I’m a Northerner through and through,’ I quipped. ‘Well, my mother was born in the north of England in a place call Todmorden. Have you heard of it?’ ‘I can walk to it from my house,’ I laughed.

I’d elected to go and meet the captain at a meet and greet, so I took my leave of the Southerners and joined a short line to greet the captain while the ship’s photographer took my photo. I asked the captain where home is for him. He told me that Ambition is registered in Nassau. He himself is from Ukraine. 

After dinner with the same two ladies on Table 92 the evening’s entertainment was a Globe Trotting quiz with an excellent compere and four volunteers each representing a different country of the UK. There were some fun questions about the various countries and my favourite was a round of crazy place names where the contestants had to guess which country the places were in. The game lasted well over an hour and was lots of fun. Afterwards I popped into the evening’s show in the Palladium theatre. Though the costumes were fun – all the ladies done up to look like Mary Antoinette, and the set was an English country garden, there was no variety in the songs and after half an hour I left. It was after 11 p.m. anyway and it was time to head for my cabin, 8026. It’s been years since I’ve fallen asleep without my radio on but since I can’t get radio reception on the ship I’ve been able to prove to myself that I can actually fall asleep without it! 

DAY 3 – Guernsey

At 7:15 a.m. an almighty clunk rocked the boat – we had landed on Guernsey. I raced to open my curtains and found that my cabin was facing seaward and I could see the islands of Herm and Sark in the distance. I was wondering how to occupy myself in St Peter Port from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. I couldn’t just wander the streets for ten hours. I had gathered that many people stay on board ship even when we land at a port but even though I’d spent five days on Guernsey in January 2019 I wanted to explore the island. Yesterday a lady had suggested a group of us get together and take the ferry to Sark but there was no way of contacting her, but I reckoned there’d be people at the dock selling various tours.

 Mulling all this over I had breakfast in the Buckingham restaurant – still busy but not as crazy as Borough Market. Then it was a trip on the tender for the 15 minute sail to St Peter Port. It was a large stride/jump onto the tender but there were lots of helping hands from the staff to assist.

 When we’d sailed past the jetty in the tender I spotted the lighthouse and castle so I headed off in that direction hoping to get a good photo of the town from the end of the jetty. Hundreds of boats were moored in the harbour and sunlight poured down on the bright blue water. I spent a couple of hours exploring  Castle Cornet which had been constructed over several hundred years. Formerly on a tidal island the castle was first built around 1200 and was taken over by the French, then the Welsh and then the English.

During the British Civil war it was held by the Parliamentarians and then the Royalists. It had also acted as a prison from earliest times until the end of World War ll, and had been a garrison for soldiers through the centuries. I found the display about the German occupation of the island very moving.  A small garden added colour to the ancient stonework and I had coffee and a Guernsey Gache, a  local toast with raisins, on the outdoor patio.

I gathered alongside a few other tourists to watch the firing of the cannon at midday. A soldier in full military uniform waited for the precise moment and then an almighty bang left everyone with buzzing ears! 

I was ready for a sit down after wandering around the castle and climbing up and down the many staircases. So I headed to the bus station to find a route around the island. I found just the right one and spent the next hour and 40 minutes on a lovely tour of the island including the Vason coast that I’d explored in my previous visit. The houses exuded affluence. It would be interesting to know how much they sell for. Their steeply angled pan-tiled roofs are very distinctive. The coastal part of the ride was beautiful. Many concrete bunkers left from WW ll still dot the coastline. 

Arriving back at the port I had an hour before it would be time to catch the tender so I thought I’d go and see the main church in the town centre. A helpful docent picked up my interest in the organ there. Apparently he has an organ stop named after him somewhere. He even opened the console and was happy for me to play the instrument but neither of us knew how to turn the massive instrument on so I suggested I play the nearby piano instead. When he took off the cover I could see that it was a Bechstein – the company which had just closed its shop down in Manchester much to my piano Meetup group’s disappointment. It had a beautiful sound and he offered to take a video of me playing it. It took him four attempts but finally he succeeded. 

I had a little wander round the town for half an hour before it was time to get the tender. I found a little cafe next to the waiting area and enjoyed an early evening refreshment as I wrote my journal before it was time to leave the island. 

Departure time for Ambition was 6 p.m. and I spent the evening sampling more of the onboard entertainment of plays, quizzes and music. I saw a beautiful golden sun peaking through the clouds over  the ocean around 8:30. Sunset was around 10 p.m.

DAY 4 – Honfleur and Giverny

I’d booked a coach tour that would take me to Monet’s garden and house at Giverny. When booking everyone was concerned about how overrun with tourists the place that Monet made his home for more than 40 years would be.  I’m glad that we had been forewarned. Apparently over 500,000 tourists visit this little village each year! Compare this to Haworth Parsonage which gets tourists from all over the world, but only 50,000 to 75,000 per year. 

We docked at Honfleur on the River Seine at 8 a.m, the anchor chains making an almighty racket. I opened the curtains expecting to see bright sunshine and a sleepy little port. Instead I found myself looking at an rain drenched enormous goods yard full of wood and cranes – no, not the feathered variety.

I had to have an early (for me) breakfast because we were to meet ashore at the coach stop by 9 a.m. for the 2 1/4 hour ride to Giverny, which included a 20 minute bathroom and snack break half way. The landscape was rolling agricultural fields and we saw nothing of the town of Honfleur as we left the riverside. 

We had a tour guide on the bus and she filled us in with facts about Monet’s life at Giverny. Apparently the entire gardens had been left derelict at some point and later reconstructed as they would have been in his day. In 1883 he began to rent this house and its orchard garden. With the help of his family, he changed its appearance from a farming plot to a flowering garden. Around the house, he sowed seeds for his favourite annuals: poppies, sunflowers, and nasturtiums. In spring he would plant daffodil bulbs, primroses, and willow herbs. By 1890 his paintings had become collectors’ items and he had enough money to purchase the house and land. Now on his private land he embarked on a much more ambitious gardening plan: he hired two full-time gardeners, which would eventually grow to six, built a large greenhouse just to propagate species and preserve bulbs, and rented a separate garden, not far away from his house, to move all the vegetable and fruits to, so he could devote his own garden solely for his flowers. His flower collection grew with a more extravagant range of species, which must have cost him a fortune: irises, peonies, delphiniums, Oriental poppies, asters, and many species of sunflowers gave colour.  He diverted water so that he could build his famous Japanese water garden with its bridges and water lilies. After he completed the development, he devoted the last 30 or so years of his life to painting almost 250 panels depicting the serene surface of his water-lily pond. The guide explained that she couldn’t guide us around the house or garden  because it would be too crowded and we wouldn’t be able to either stick together, or hear her. The couple from the Ribble Valley were on the bus and we chatted throughout the journey. Once at Giverny the guide showed us the way into and out of the garden and house and the way into the little village and back to the coach park – all very confusing. There was a grey sky above us but rain wasn’t forecast until 4 in the afternoon by which time we were scheduled to be on our way home on the coach, but I’d brought my raincoat ‘just in case.’ 

We arrived at 11.15 and were told that this was the quietest part of the day but I could already see a long line of visitors stretching from the house itself so I set about wandering in the gardens. They are so extensive that they now take 50 gardeners to care for them. How on earth did Monet manage to create this himself? The scent from the roses permeated the air and the straight rows of flowers separated by little parallel paths were beautifully cared for. My undergraduate dissertation had been about the influence of impressionist art on Debussy’s music so this was a very special place for me to visit fifty years after I first learned of it. But the place was just so busy that I didn’t get a real sense of Monet’s life here, with his two wives and eight children. The narrow walkways in the gardens were filled with slow moving elderly people and younger people stopping to take selfies every few minutes. An underpass led to the Japanese garden. But unfortunately it isn’t water lily season. It was almost impossible to take photos of the Japanese bridges, there were just too many people on them. Soon it started to rain, so I’m glad my raincoat got some use. 

Eventually I went over to the house when I could see that there were only about a dozen people in line waiting to enter but the queue inside stretched through every room. I was very surprised at how large the actual building was but what surprised me most was his collection of art works, especially Japanese prints. I asked a docent if they had been there in Monet’s time, and the answer was definitely yes, though many of them are replicas for security purposes. I asked the docent to take a photo of me in the same place that Monet was standing in one of the photos displayed on the wall. 

Exit was, naturally, through the gift shop, and though I had gathered some postcards to send to my daughters I gave up after I saw the length of the checkout line. Someone said it was an hour long! I consoled myself thinking that I’d buy some postcards in the village itself but no – none of the little gift shops carried any postcards. Perhaps the house has a monopoly on their sale. I thought I’d get a drink before returning to the coach at 2.15 and I spotted a little cafe that looked inviting. They had a range of teabags to chose from – impressive – but then lady server poured me just half a paper cup of hot water. I paid with my debit card and looked around for some milk. “Ah, that will be an extra 50 cents,” she told me. I rummaged around for my card again, made a big show of giving it to her but she just shrugged her shoulders implying that I needn’t pay for the milk. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been charged separately for the milk to be put in a cup of tea. 

After this amusing encounter I headed back towards the coach stop passing a field of long grass peppered with flowering red poppies, at the centre of which was a haystack – all familiar presences in Monet’s paintings. The field was part of the Impressionist museum but there wasn’t time to visit it. I was relieved to find my way back to the coach park without any difficulty and off we set – in the pouring rain!

Back in Honfleur I felt tired enough to go straight back to the ship for forty winks, especially since we’d moved the clocks on an hour overnight, but I couldn’t miss going to have a look at Honfleur, so along with the couple I took the shuttle bus directly into the centre of Honfleur rather than going back to Ambition.

Satie had lived in Honfleur as had Monet and his teacher Boudin and they had both done many paintings of the town. My GPS wasn’t working on my phone and I was loathe to head off into the town without it. The last shuttle bus back to the ship was 7 p.m. and so I explored the town with the couple who had both been there before. The central dock with its ancient multi-storey buildings is iconic but in all the photos and paintings I’d seen of the houses were beautifully coloured. How different today.

They are brown and grey wooden structures and that wasn’t just because it was now raining quite hard. Some of the side streets had ancient wattle and daub buildings and we selected a lovely bar for a drink and a brief shelter from the rain. It reminded me of The First and Last Chance Saloon in Oakland with its walls and ceiling decorated with all manner of things. Flags covered the ceiling  and there was even the bear flag of California to make me feel at home. 

Heading out I suggested we went to see if the big church, St Catherine’s,  was open and it was. It’s all constructed of wood and the ceilings of the aisles look like the keels of upturned boats – and no wonder – it was constructed by fishermen. It dates from the second half of the 15th century and is the largest wooden church in France. because of its wooden structure it wasn’t strong enough to support a tower so a tower topped with a spire was built separately – and now serves as the public toilets!

Back on the streets a souvenir was purchased – in the form of Pisse de Vaches – a liqueur called yes, cow’s piss.

We got the last shuttle back and as we checked in we were told that were the last three people to return to the ship! They also mentioned that there was a spare seat at their table for the second sitting in the Buckingham restaurant so at 8.15 I made my way to their table – table 2. There were four people already seated at the six seater table and the couple weren’t there. The others looked at me as if I’d flown in from another planet but as soon as I’d told them of my invitation to the table they welcomed me. A few minutes later the couple arrived and so she had to grab the table settings from another table and we squeezed seven onto our table. She explained that they had been delayed because her partner had gone to the laundry on board to wash his red pants that had got muddy and wet during the day – and he’d only brought one other pair with him – his dress pants and he wasn’t going to wear them at tonight’s informal meal. I had a lovely curry as my main course. Again I noticed that people were tucking into their bottles of wine like there was no tomorrow. 

After dinner I went to the Palladium theatre to watch a ghost story play. Then it was off to my room around 11.15 – a tired and content  bunny. What a lot I’d packed in today!

DAY 5  – At sea

I enjoyed working on my cross stitch owl and reading Gordo, the book that Sarah had given me for Christmas, set in the farming community south of Santa Cruz. I don’t seem to be able to give myself ‘permission’ to read and embroider at home, so I welcomed this. I had a latish breakfast in Borough Market. Again, it was very busy but I had a delicious bacon butty. 

At 11 o’clock I attended a lecture by Stuart Laing, former Master of Corpus Christie College, Cambridge,  entitled ‘Heroes of Hull, Brigand of Bristol’ about the slave trade. He had been an ambassador to Oman and Kuwait. I felt that his lecture went way above the heads of the audience – mine included, and rather irrelevant to this particular cruise. It was all about the Afro-Arab slave trade. 

Later I went back to the market for a light bite and was joined by Arthur for one of the most interesting conversations I’d had so far on the trip. We were still chatting two hours later! One of the inevitable conversation starters is about former cruises and he told me all about the Hurtigruten cruise he’d taken – the post boat to the Norwegian fjords. This was a cruise that Maggie had been on and had urged me to take. Arthur had recently been widowed and when his husband died last year he’d taken the cruise rather than be a third wheel at friends’ Christmas celebrations. Despite there only being four hours of daylight he described basking in the hot tub on deck with snow falling on him, and an amazing husky ride on the frozen ice. He has lived in Spain since the mid 1970s and has had five operations on his spine so his mobility is very limited, so his husky ride was very special for him. 

In the afternoon I managed to talk to Sarah and Daphne briefly, having figured out that WhatsApp calls can be done from the ship.  

Dinner was on Table 2 again and then to The Retro Rock Rebellion at the Palladium theatre – a singing and dancing show which was well done but didn’t interest me very much and I left before it finished. 

DAY 6 – Ijmuiden, The Netherlands

I’d booked a tour called ‘Amsterdam on your own.’ Basically it was just a coach taking me to the from the port of Ijmuiden to the centre of Amsterdam, about a 45 minute ride. It left at 8.45 which meant an early start for me but since no return time had been posted I presumed that I could return to the boat at whatever time I pleased. Imagine my surprise then when the coach driver announced that we’d need to be back on the coach by 1.50 for a 2.00 departure back to Ambition. 

I woke to a view of bellowing chimneys and a huge industrial estate. One of the problems of not having Internet was that I couldn’t research places that I’d be visiting. During the trip out of the port we passed big factories and goods yards with giant car parks – all filled – but I didn’t see a single person until we reached the outskirts of Amsterdam. The coach deposited us close to the central station much of which was under wraps since it is undergoing some major reconstruction.

When I got home after the cruise I noticed that a TV series has been made – Amsterdam Central 24/7 about the 900 men and women who keep things running smoothly at the station which is undergoing its largest renovation in its history.  Our coach guide gave me directions on how to find a place where I could board a cruise along one of the canals. It had just started raining as I left Ambition and it was now blowing a gale so I didn’t fancy just wandering around the streets on my own for four hours. It wasn’t until I reached the cruise chalet that I realised that this was the same company and route that I’d taken in March, 2019. Was it really six years ago? The hour’s cruise was enjoyable despite the weather, passing the tall houses, some only one metre wide because taxes were assessed on ground space. I was fascinated by the taking in pulleys on the gables, some of which are still used for getting people’s furniture into their homes. 

Once back at the dock it was a struggle to find the terminus of the Hop On Hop Off bus but once found I was assured that it would be back at the starting point in an hour – by 1.30. However, as we drove around  the streets traffic was at a standstill in many places and I began to worry that I’d not get back to the shuttle coach in time.

I’d been told that a taxi back to Ambition would cost 100 Euros. Just before we reached the terminus  the bridge that we were about to cross suddenly took flight so that two boats could pass beneath, thus delaying the bus even more. It was precisely 2 p.m. when the bus reached the terminus. I could see my coach shuttle across the street and I just made it in time – the last one to board. 

Dinner was at Table 2 again. I had a lovely seafood starter served in a shell and then pork stuffed with dried apricot and I caught a little bit of the Game Show Around the World after dinner and then went to see comedian Gerry Graham, a 45 minute show.

One of his specialities is writing his own words to favourite song themes – very funny. A couple of his one liners were rather ‘old school’ and a lot of his material was based on TV programmes, comics and songs from the 60s and 70s that I don’t know but his presentation was flawless and quite witty.

I was back in my room by 11.15. The ship had started to rock and sway quite a lot and it was a little tricky to walk in a straight line – and I’d only had a small glass of white wine with my dinner!

DAY 7 – All at Sea for my birthday

When I returned to my cabin after breakfast today a Happy Birthday banner had been installed above my window. I opened my birthday cards that I’d brought with me. I’d already opened one from my daughters that had been there to greet me when I first stepped into my cabin, along with a plate of delicious chocolates. Somehow Rachel had organised that! Today there was a card from Ambassador cruises, a Mothers’ Day card from Wobbly Bob, and two original cards painted by Gill and Jane.

I planned to go to the play at 2 o’clock in the Palladium Theatre, but, oh my, the theatre was completely full – no spaces whatsoever, so I took a couple of strolls around the ship, wrote up my journal over a nice cider. Trace has another week of paternity leave before returning to school for two weeks before the long summer break. Belinda was there. It’s her birthday too today! When I called Sarah she was in a rush to leave  – all dressed up with her long hair down rather than pinned up as it usually is. She was just about to leave for the first meeting for the musicians of Sweeney Todd, the musical she’s playing in in the pit with Cabrillo Stage.

I had a shower myself, got dressed up and then went to hear the Kit Kat Trio, a Filipino group with two girls and a guy. One of the girls plays guitar and sings, and the guy plays keyboards and sings occasionally. Then off to the Nice and Easy Trivia Game where I was soon joined by five others including a man who was very interested in my trip to Alamogordo in  New Mexico, the site of the first nuclear explosion in 1945. Our conversation had been ignited by a question about the Oppenheimer movie. Rachel had visited the site too, just as the movie was released in 2023. However, the man wouldn’t accept my answer that Spain won the Euros in 2024, insisting that we wrote the answer Italy!

Then it was time to go to dinner with Table 2. Our attention was drawn to the waiters gathering round a table at the far end of the restaurant and singing Happy Birthday, so I shared with my table that it was my birthday and told our waiter. Soon after someone from our table took a trip to the bathroom which seemed to take a long time and when she returned she’d made a little birthday card for me on behalf of all at Table 2. Another member of Table 2 is celebrating his birthday tomorrow and so he’s booked us all to go to Saffron restaurant, a small restaurant on Ambition specialising in Indian and Chinese food. As our dessert was served all the waiters gathered around our table, sang Happy Birthday and presented me with a piece of cheesecake with one lit candle – very sweet. Someone asked if this was a significant birthday – and I replied that all birthdays are significant! 

The late evening’s entertainment at the theatre was A Night in Nashville – the performers singing and dancing in extravagant cowboy costumes – very entertaining, and very well done.

DAY 8 – Orkney

I looked through the window to see that it was pouring down, foggy and blowing a gale. I could see the green fields beyond the terminal and just make out the spire of St Magnus cathedral which I recognised from my previous trip to the island in August of 2017. An early lunch was required in order to meet the tour bus at 1 p.m.

The wind was so strong that it was hard to stand up straight especially on the steep ramp down from the ship. Our tour guide for this four hour excursion, Norah, was excellent – a wealth of knowledge and she even pointed out her house, a remote farm, during our trip. She’d come to live in Orkney 15 years ago. As we drove around the island in a mixture of sunshine and heavy showers but with a consistently strong wind my attention was drawn to the ruined longhouses reminding me of the entire ruined village I’d seen on Mull on my trip there with Keith in August 2018. It was difficult to differentiate between the inland lochs and the sea.

There were lots of sheep with their young lambs and cattle with their calves. We had a photo stop at Palace beach. The colours on the island – the sky, the rocks, the fluorescent green of the fields and the varieties of blues on the water are amazing – no wonder these northern isles are a paradise for artists. Three wooden picnic tables had stone semi circular walls built to protect them from the wind. It really was difficult to even stand still.

I think this is probably the strongest wind I’ve ever encountered. But at least there was some bright sunshine for a few moments as the clouds scudded across the sky, sometimes obliterating the sun and sometimes opening for the sun’s rays to reach the earth. It was these colours that I tried to capture in my photos of the island, that – and the remoteness of the individual farms and ruins of former  buildings. 

Palace takes its name from the Earl’s Palace built around 1606 by Patrick, earl of Orkney, one of the island’s most notorious rulers. I was disappointed that our coach didn’t stop at the palace ruins. 

At Sandwick there was a chapel on a cliff with a beautifully maintained cemetery. There was no village nearby, just this isolated chapel. It is a rare survival of an unaltered Scots parish kirk of 1836 with views of the Bay of Skaill and Skara Brae. It was hard to imagine that in the mid 19th century the kirk would have been packed with 500 people – each having no more than an 18” space on each pew! I do wish Norah had told us that the chapel was open but one of the passengers did go inside and he shared his photos with me. It looked very similar to the non-conformist chapels of Calderdale in West Yorkshire. 

And then we headed to Stromness, a town that I didn’t visit on my Brightwater Adventure to the Orkneys and Shetland. We were here for just 40 minutes so I wandered around the sea front with its ancient buildings basking now in the glorious sunshine. A lot of music was issuing forth since today is the last day of the Orkney Folk Festival. There was even a small group of young girls playing the violin on the street which so reminded me of Rachel at the same age. I got a coffee to take back with  my on the bus and then we headed to the Ring of Brodgar which I’d visited before. Gone was the wooden picket fence that had surrounded the circle on my previous visit so it looked much more ancient and pristine.

Well, it is 5,000 years old. The surrounding heather of course was not in bloom but still it was the colours that impressed me most. An unexpected encounter as I walked around the stone circle was two Morris men lying prostrate close to the henge in their costumes. I asked if I could take a photo and was told no. So I just walked away and pretended to take a panoramic shot but actually took the photo that I wanted. As I walked around the circle I couldn’t stop thinking about how remote these islands are and what it must be like to live here, whether it be 5000 years ago, or today. The wind was still strong and it was obvious a storm was brewing. Overhead a huge black cloud was heading in our direction and three minutes before I arrived back at the coach the rain started. It didn’t last long but it was a huge downpour. I looked in vain for a rainbow but I was told later that evening that there had been one. 

Back on the ship Table 2 had migrated to Saffron and tonight we were joined by another man who just happened to sit opposite me. I thought I recognised his accent. “I’m from Bolton,” he told me. I joked that I’d buy him a drink if he could guess which village I am from, but when he said he knew Harwood and Tottington I withdrew my offer – all in good fun. Then he mentioned that his favourite pub in the area is the Pack Horse at Affetside, and that he was meeting a friend there this Friday, even though he now lives in Durham.

I took a video of him explaining all this to share with my daughters. Our dinner reservation was for 8 p.m. and with the starters and drinks it was 9.30 p.m. before the main course was served. I’d had enough by 10 p.m. so I made my excuses, saying that I wanted to photograph the sunset and cloud formation, so off I trotted. Sunset was at 10.04. Beautiful. 

Entertainment for the rest of the evening was ‘Live Aid – a Musicians Songbook’. revisiting the songs of the live aid concert of 1985. The show was interrupted by a message from the ship’s captain which many of us in the audience thought at first was part of the show. He informed us that we would be encountering rough weather. We were advised to hold onto the ship’s rails and bannisters as we walked and that sea sickness tablets were available free of charge. The show resumed but the ship began to lurch violently. The actors and dancers carried on regardless – they are obviously used to situations like this. The passengers on the other hand aren’t. I had cling to every rail and chair was I left the theatre at the end of the show. Just crossing the hallway to the lift was challenging. And once back safely in my cabin even getting ready for bed was difficult. I woke up many times during the night feeling the pressure of the ship swaying. The captain had also informed us that because of the turbulence we wouldn’t be able to go to Shetland the following day. We’d have a day at sea and spend the final day of our cruise docked at Douglas on the Isle of Man.

DAY 9 –  At sea

This was an unanticipated day at sea. We had been scheduled to sail north overnight and spend today on Shetland but the storm had meant that we’d had to make a detour and head to the Isle of Man.

Fortunately I’d brought some seasickness tablets with me and I’m glad that I did, though I still felt decidedly unwell all morning, and I tried to sleep it off. The outside deck was severely flooded, the mock grass carpet being under several inches of water. 

By the time we sailed past Uist the sea had become calmer and I spent the rest of the day doing my embroidery, reading and watching the amazing parade in Liverpool on SkySports TV. Liverpool FC had finished the season on top of the Premier League and a parade of open top buses holding the team were cheered on by thousands of fans with lots of red smoke and fireworks. The parade passed the Liver Building and the dock where I’d boarded Ambition. I’m glad we weren’t scheduled to dock there today. Well over 100,000 people were there. What I didn’t know at the time was that some crazy guy drove his car in to the crowd injuring many people. 

Because we had to pass between the Hebrides we were able to see land on both sides of us throughout the day, something that I’d been disappointed not to see on our other days at sea – always having docked and departed in the dark.

I decided to have an early light dinner in the Borough Market, so after dinner I went to the pub quiz on a movie theme where I joined Table 2 at 7.30. My Mohave desert answer was much appreciated – though here it was pronounced Mo – jave by many!  Another question was how many symphonies did Beethoven compose?  Our team didn’t win but at least I’d made a contribution. At the end of the evening all crew paraded through the theatre so that we could show our appreciation. There were 512 crew to 1200 passengers. 

DAY 10 – Isle of Man

I slept so much better since we were back on calm waters. We dropped anchor at 6.45 a.m. I looked out of my window, and there it was – the Isle of Man. OK, the sky wasn’t exactly blue but it wasn’t foggy or pouring with rain. But by 10 a.m. the land had become shrouded in mist and it was raining heavily – but at least Ambition wasn’t reeling around. I’d received an email from Baggex, the luggage courier service, to say that they wouldn’t be able to take my rolly bag home – darn it – I can’t even lift it. 

I have a photo of my mum, my grandma and her friend Annie Brown on a  boat on the Isle of Man and I think my boyfriend Tony went there with his mum, flying from Blackpool, but I’ve not been there before today. The excursion that I’d booked was to leave at 1.15 and we were advised to leave the ship to board the tender no later than 12.30. As I looked out towards the tender it was certainly bouncing around a lot in the water and many passengers who had not paid for an onshore excursion and just wanted to take the tender to the shore in Douglas were having second thoughts. I took another seasickness tablet, just in case, and then we were off, heading towards the promenade with its rows of tall white buildings, obviously Victorian, built as guest houses and boarding houses. It was only a 15 minute sail in the tender to the landing area and in the reception building my attention went straight to a blue piano placed there in memory of someone named Cody, so I gave it a little tinkle of Bach and Grieg as I waited for the coach. 

Our guide was knowledgable about the island’s history, of which I knew nothing. She pointed out that in the 1960s, which is when my family would have visited, tourists visited the island for its beaches, ice cream and dirty postcards. Now, it’s much more upmarket, home to millionaires and it offers great tax incentives. I had no idea that the island had its own language, and currently one elementary school only uses the Manx language in an effort to preserve it. The island was settled by the Vikings, was the place of a 25,000 person internment camp during WW ll and the home of William Hillary who founded  the RNLI. Gently rolling hills shrouded in mist was the order of the day as we drove to Castletown where we had an hour to explore on our own. The town is dominated by Castle Rushen, a medieval castle built for a Viking king.

The town is a maze of narrow streets and former fishermen’s cottages. The town and castle have been the site of numerous sieges and battles, as the Norsemen, the Scots and the English fought to control it. Robert the Bruce captured the castle three times. My first teaching post in Bedford had been at Robert the Bruce school! There’s even the remains of an extinct volcano on the island – as I type this Mt Etna, which I hiked halfway up in 2018, has just erupted. I even noticed a bus stop called Smetana’s stop which had music inscribed but I don’t know why it’s there – and neither did our guide! 

I walked around the dock and took a brief peek into the House of Keys, the island’s old parliament building.

Wandering around the main shopping streets they felt very deserted, not a person in sight and many of the shops were permanently closed – almost a ghost town feel to the place. 

Back on the coach we took the A3 north passing Foxdale, home of 13 lead mines in the 19th century and we could see some of the ruined smelting mills dotted in the fields. The mines were all compulsory closed in 1911. Gardners in the vicinity today are still not allowed to grow veggies in the soil, just in pots with good soil, because of the lead content still present in the soil. 

Then we stopped for an hour in Peel, dominated by the castle originally built by Norwegians in the 11th century under the rule of Magnus Barefoot. After the Norwegians left it became a church when a cathedral was built on the site. Excavations in the 10th century uncovered a 10th century grave containing a Norwegian necklace and a silver coin dated 1030. The colourful fisherman’s cottages that lined the streets reminded me of Tobermoray on Mull. It was a pity there wasn’t enough time to visit the castle or the museum but I did buy a toasted teacake and take a cup of tea back to the coach with me. 

Back at the ferry terminal I asked someone to take a video of me playing the blue piano and then it was back to the tender which thankfully wasn’t a bouncy as earlier in the day. I was back on Ambition by 6.30 and then I hastily did my packing  because everyone had to put their suitcases outside their room by 11 p.m. Later I did the pub quiz with the same two ladies for the third night and we did quite well.

I had dinner with table 2 and then it was off to the Palladium theatre to watch Oscar Night. This group of young singer/actors are very professional, as are the backdrops and the costumes.

I was back in my cabin by 11.30. I have to vacate my cabin by 7.30 tomorrow morning. That’s awfully early for me! 

DAY 11 – Going home

I had a peek from my window just before 6 a.m. hoping to see some coastline but all I could see was are sea. I left my cabin just before 7.30 knowing I then had to hang around the ship for four hours since I’d been assigned to an 11.30 disembarkation. How better, then, to find a quiet spot in one of the lounges and write up my journal for yesterday. And, I got my first consistent WiFi connection in ten days, so I needed to catch up with all those emails and Facebook messages, especially those wishing me Happy Birthday that I hadn’t been able to acknowledge. 

Embarkation was straightforward – just a question of handing in my Ambition card. This card had been the sole way of paying for anything on the ship including the excursions. It had also acted as a passport. It was strange to think that I’d visited France and The Netherlands without having to show my passport at any time on the trip. It almost felt as if I hadn’t actually been abroad. 

Many of the passengers had pre-booked taxis and they had priority on disembarkation. When I enquired where to get a taxi from I was directed, not very well, to a spot just outside the perimeter of the port, where to my horror I saw a line of at least 30 or 40 people in front of me, with not a taxi in sight, and it was raining cats and dogs!  The ship’s people had told me that there’d be a line of taxis waiting for people leaving the ship.Not! It was 10 minutes before the first taxi arrived, by which time at least 20 people had joined the line. It was going to take hours.

So – book an Uber! My Uber arrived in 5 minutes and 15 minutes later I was on the platform, awaiting my train to Manchester. There’d been no sign of the Liverpool FC parade during my short journey to Lime Street station. My concern about dealing with my rolly bag proved to be unfounded as I found people willing to help me lift it onto and off the train. I noticed that the rhododendrons on the sides of the railway track had come into bloom whilst I’d been cruising around – and my purple headed chives in my garden had flowered.  I’d booked a taxi in Hebden Bridge, and I was home safely by 2.15 and by 2.30 I was sitting comfortably with Branwell purring in my lap. 

IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT. HEPTONSTALL SOLDIER’S INTERESTING DESCRIPTION.

17th November, 1916, Todmorden and District News

Private Harry Taylor (King’s Royal Rifles), eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Paul Taylor, White Lion Hotel, Heptonstall, has written the following interesting account of the recent Big Push: ‘About seven o’clock the night before the battle we marched about four miles to the top a hill close behind the fighting line. Here we were served out with bombs and some of us got a spade fastened on our backs. Just before dawn we marched off again through woods and villages which our troops had recently taken. Our guns started blazing away, howitzers behind and field-guns all around us. It was a terrible bombardment, and it made one feel proud to be a Britisher. After about hour this again started off for the last line and soon we were struggling through shell holes towards the German lines. We passed two large bodies of German prisoners, some them wounded all looking pleased to get out of it. This time big German shells were bursting all round and soon the machine guns also opened fire. We were now getting quite close to the Huns, and our men were falling before the terrible fire machine guns. One in particular on our right flank enfiladed and played havoc before it was put out of action. Still we kept on running about 20 yards, then throwing ourselves headlong into shell-holes. It was hard work and I remember I was so ‘done up ’ at one time that I was forced to walk across open ground to the next shell-hole. I had a very narrow escape, a bullet hitting the spade, which showed above my shoulders, and glancing off. A little further we came to the first line of trenches, which had been taken from the Germans that morning, and also passed two ‘caterpillars,’ one of which had been put out action by a ‘whizz-bang.’ We were in the thick of it now with a vengeance, but kept pushing on and the Germans gave themselves up in hundreds. The different regiments seemed to have all got mixed up by the time had advanced about two miles, but it was only what could be expected. The order was now passed along to dig ourselves in, and luckily I was in shell-hole at the time along with Rifle Brigade officer, three R.B. men, and corporal of my own company, so had not much digging to do. In a few hours we were firmly established in good deep trenches, all connected up. We stayed here until the early hours next morning, during which time the Germans made a few counter attacks, but we drove them back quite easily. We were all glad when the relief came up for were hungry and tired. It was a long, weary journey back to where our field kitchens were waiting for with some good hot tea that seemed to put new life into us. At present we are in nice warm barn in a little village about 40 miles behind the line for a three weeks’ rest. I and my chum had each the offer of a stripe, but we did not accept same then. We have plenty straw at the barn and have had a skin-coat and pair of fur-lined gloves issued to us. I shall probably have been confirmed by the time this letter reaches you.”

Did Harry’s account refer to his involvement in the Battle of the Somme?

Last week while enjoying refreshments at The Cross in Heptonstall I noticed a small framed photo on the ledge behind me. It showed a man pouring beer from a jug for five other men, four seated and one standing. From their clothes I’d have guessed the photo was taken around 1900. Imagine my astonishment when, on turning the frame over, there were two aging pieces of paper stuck to the back bearing the following inscription: ‘Paul Taylor, born 10th November 1867, died 17th May, 1923. he is the man holding the jug. Licensee of The White Lion, Heptonstall. Photo taken behind the White Lion next to what had been the smithy. Local people in the village all referred to Cliffe Street as ….’

Oh my, this landlord, Paul Taylor is one of my ancestors! My excitement was immense. It’s so rare to find photos of ancestors on ancestral websites and archives, let alone, by pure chance in a pub. And remember, the photo was in The Cross pub just a few doors along the main cobbled street in Heptonstall from The White Lion. I would love to know how this photo came to be in The Cross. I go there frequently and haven’t seen it before.

Once home I was eager to do more research into Paul Taylor, a name I knew from previous research. But what’s this? The dates are wrong. ‘My’ Paul Taylor, about whom I had already written a blog, tracing the origins of the Taylor family at Old Chamber and ending with the tragically early deaths of two of his children was 1829-1904. https://blog.hmcreativelady.com/2022/09/03/rambles-through-my-family-15-untimely-deaths-chapter-6-frank-taylor/

https://blog.hmcreativelady.com/?s=ellen+taylor

Surely there must be a family link between the two Paul Taylors, especially since the White Lion plays an important part in the story of the earlier Paul Taylor. It didn’t take me too long to discover that the Paul Taylor in the photo was the nephew of the earlier one. The Paul in the photo was the son of Greenwood Taylor, Paul number 1’s brother. Greenwood was a stone mason living at Old Chamber when this Paul was born. By 1891 the family had moved to Heptonstall, living in the centre of the village at New House Farm, adjacent to Dog Lane. Neither of these names appear on old maps but by posting on Facebook I discovered that Dog Lane was the old name for Church Lane since it follows the trajectory of a dog’s back leg. Greenwood now lists himself as a farmer and Paul became a fustian cutter. In 1896 Paul married Mary Hannah Robertshaw, daughter of Ann Robertshaw, at Heptonstall church and they had six children. Five years after their marriage they were living at The White Lion in Heptonstall where Paul would remain the landlord for the next twenty years until his death in 1923, when the license was transferred to his wife.

in 1903 Paul Taylor, of the White Lion, Heptonstall, was fined 5 shillings and costs on the 27th November last for being drunk in charge of a horse and cart. In July 1917 Paul won a bowling tournament at Heptonstall Bowling club, a place with special memories for me since that’s where the cast and crew of the TV series The Gallows Pole would meet to have dinner after the day’s filming. I was an extra playing a ‘Cragg Vale villager.’

The newspaper article about The Big Push was written by Paul’s son, Harry. He was just 19 when he wrote it. He’d been brought up in the hilltop village of Heptonstall, where his father was landlord of the White Lion. By the age of 14 he was a weaver in a cotton mill, a mill within walking distance of the village. Being thrust from that life into life on ‘the front’ is incomprehensible to me, but on this day of celebrating the end of the second world war I think it’s fitting to stop and think about such stories – the many millions of such stories.

2.FANNY GREENWOOD (This being chapter 2 of my ’13 Untimely Deaths’)

Willie Wrigley is James and Mally’s great grandson

It was May, 2020. The country, indeed much of the world, was in lockdown – the Coronavirus pandemic. Yet here I stood on a remote hillside with a panoramic view of the Calder Valley. Atop Erringden Moor Stoodley Pike rose like an eagle commanding a view of its territory, but it’s a black eagle, no hint of gold on its ‘phallic spike.’ ¹ The bleat of new born lambs filled the still air, a joyous sound now no longer obliterated by the overhead roars of planes on their flight to distant lands. A highland cow had introduced herself to me as I strolled along Burlees Lane, high above Hebden Bridge but her eyes warned me not to enter her field despite the public footpath sign.

It had been a steep climb up Wadsworth Lane, passing the housing estate of Dodd Naze on my left while to my right was open pasture but now I had a bird’s eye view of the Calder Valley and the small town of Mytholmroyd. Even though this town with its tongue twisting name is only 2 miles East of Hebden Bridge the valley here is much wider here with more expansive flat areas with scattered buildings , quite different from the tightly packed houses on top of each other, accessible by steep stone staircases.

I was in search of Hill House, birthplace of one of my ancestors, Charlotte Greenwood. I turned off the main road onto a small unpaved lane, Raw Lane. Ancient cottages now mostly restored and exuding affluence, their windows overlooking a dramatic landscape are dotted along its length, seemingly at random, some with their front doors opening directly onto the lane and others set back. In places Raw Lane is tree lined and at this time of year the trees heavy with leaves bowed their boughs forming an arch above me for me to walk through onto centre stage. The scent of the white hawthorn flowers was everywhere, reminding me of the hawthorn tree close to my childhood bedroom window at Affetside, and the brilliant yellow gorse flowers vied with a field of vibrant yellow buttercups for the prize of best in show. Today the verges were ablaze with colour. Foxgloves stood tall, proudly displaying their pendulous bell-like blooms and as I became aware that my jacket perfectly matched their shade of purple-pink I assured the busy bees that I was bereft of pollen.

Yet I had walked along with path in Autumn when the fog was so dense I could hardly see the roadside verges, let alone the expanse of the Calder Valley. Winters up here can be treacherous with ice and snow in abundance, and even today bins of grit lined the path reminding me of those dark days of winter when the lane lives up to its name. With map in hand I picked out Hill House to my right, perched alone on top of a smooth sided grass-green hill, devoid of trees, and justifying its name 100%.

A man was gardening at Hill House Lane Top and I chatted to him, admiring the lovely view his house had before taking the poppy lined cobbled track down towards my destination passing a beautifully landscaped garden with an ornamental pond and just as I approached the ancient stone house with its large barn across the yard a woman came into view, the current owner. I explained my quest and she was interested enough to bring out to me a framed aerial photo of the property taken about thirty years ago. It brought back memories of a similar photograph of my home at Third Bungalow, Affetside, framed and sitting in pride of place on top of my piano for many years. It had been taken from a helicopter some time in the 1970s and the pilot had landed in our field. Back at Hill House the owner pointed out a date stone above the front porch of 1678 and the initials IMG but she assured me that the building was significantly older than the stone indicated and that this was the date commemorating a rebuild.

With an invitation to return after lockdown was over I took my leave and she directed me to a path running behind the house enabling me to hike back into the valley a different way, following the outline of the hill which gives the house its name. I found myself crossing a beautiful meadow awash with wild flowers, clovers, cowslip and buttercups before reaching Red Acre Wood. Much work has been done to preserve the footpaths traversing this woodland sanctuary but the path remains steep, often with stairways and I had to keep my focus on my footsteps until I reached the valley floor from where I looked back and could see, high above, Hill House, perched atop its hill, birthplace of Charlotte Greenwood. In the Spring of 1894 Charlotte married Willie Wrigley, the great grandson of James and Mally, my 4^th great grandparents who had lived at Lily Hall. Willie was an architect of some renown.

I knew that Charlotte and Willie had a turbulent life together and his desertion of his wife and children resulted in a 3 month incarceration with hard labour in Wakefield gaol in 1901. But as I chatted to the current owner of Hill House that Spring morning I wasn’t aware of a tragedy that had occurred there one hundred and sixty years ago. A search later that evening produced an account in the newspaper that chilled me to the bone.

An article in the Sheffield Daily Telegraph 4th Nov 1861 reads ‘Murder and Suicide by a Mother Mytholmroyd: On Friday last, at midday, a most awful tragedy was perpetrated at Hill House, Wadsworth, Mytholmroyd, by a married woman, named Greenwood, wife of Mr. Greenwood, farmer. It appears that during the forenoon Mr. Greenwood had gone to Mytholmroyd with a week’s butter, and while away his wife cut the throat of her little daughter, about five years old, after which she cut her own throat, and ran out bleeding profusely into the house of a neighbour, (living at Hill House Lane Top where I’d chatted to the owner) named Sutcliffe, and then ran back into her own house. She still had the razor in her hand. Sutcliffe took it from her, and the mother pointed to the child in an adjoining room, with its head almost severed from its body. It would seem she had had two razors at work; one was also lying on the table, opposite the looking glass, covered with blood, along with two empty razor cases. The house presented more the appearance of a slaughter-house than human dwelling, such was the quantity of blood on the floors. The little girl’s hands were tied with a shred of cotton lining. Mrs. Greenwood has been in a desponding state of mind for some time, but not so much so as to cause much alarm. Since the above was written, it is reported that Mrs. Greenwood is dead also.” ²

I found over sixty accounts of this tragedy in various newspapers, the story being reported as far away as Ireland, Wales and Scotland but only the Hull Advertiser suggested a reason for the tragedy. “She had been depressed in spirits for some time in consequence of her husband’s ill luck in business as a farmer, and also in consequence of the helpless and idiotic state of the child brought on by the violent fits to which it had been subject for two or three years.” ³

Three and a half years after the devastating death of both his wife and child James Greenwood remarried. I mean, it’s not surprising. He had four remaining children under eight years old and he had a farm of 28 acres to look after. Following his marriage to Elizabeth Jackson at Mytholmroyd church the couple had three more children, the youngest being ‘my’ Charlotte born in 1871. James and Elizabeth continued to live at Hill House for the rest of their lives and as I picked my way carefully along the steep path through Red Acre Wood I wondered what ghosts penetrated their lives there.

Emerging from the dark density of the woodsI found myself in the centre of a bright and sunny Mytholmroyd. This small town on the River Calder lies at the junction of Cragg Brook and the River Calder and the valley floor here is much wider than the narrow cleft in which Hebden Bridge cowers, just two miles to the East. Yet its propensity to flooding is equal to that of its neighbour and TV crews covering the floods often have a particular difficulty in pronouncing the town’s name, meaning a clearing where two streams meet. After a few minutes’ walk along the towpath towpath I crossed the canal, the road and the river and arrived at the church, in search of the resting place of Fanny. It didn’t take me long in this well kept cemetery to find her grave, in which her daughter, Grace, also rests. So too is Grace’s sister, Sarah, aged 14 and Ann, aged 25. Fanny’s husband James lived to a grand old age of 72, and his second wife rests there too.

At that moment the church bell struck the hour and as I looked up at the asymmetrical church tower the outline of Hill House perched on its hill appeared to be directly the tower. Grave That morning on my way to find Charlotte’s birthplace I’d looked down with pleasure at Hill House and its commanding position and chatted happily with the owner. I know now that the place will hold different memories for me whenever I see it perched on the hill looking out to Mytholmroyd.

1 Glyn Hughes Millstone Grit p. 60

2 https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0000250/18611104/049/0002?browse=False

3 https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0001280/18611109/108/0005?browse=False

I was surprised to see sun when I opened the curtains this morning. I mist was hanging like a curtain over the valley, swishing this way and that – one minute obscuring Weasel Hall across the Calder Valley, and the next minute Weasel Hall was in full sunlight and Heptonstall was obscured by clouds. I couldn’t resist the opportunity to get out on’t’tops and I jumped onto the first bus up to Blackshaw Head, 600ft above me. There was another reason I wanted to go up there for today was Remembrance Day and one of my ancestors, Giles Sunderland, who lived on that exposed moor and was killed during WWl is remembered on the memorial stone in the chapel’s cemetery.

By the time the bus reached the scattered village, however, there was a lot more low dense cloud than swirling mist and sunshine, and I knew that it wasn’t the morning for stunning photography that I had anticipated.

I stayed on the bus at the turnaround and alighted at the wonderfully named Slack Bottom. I peeked into the lane leading down to Lumb Bank, now a writers’ retreat that had been purchased by Ted Hughes. It wasn’t until I attended the last zoom meeting of Hebden Bridge History Society last week that I learned that Ted’s parents lived in Slack Bottom and it was there that Sylvia Plath visited them, thus leading to eventual burial in Heptonstall Cemetery, a long way from her birthplace in Massachusetts, where, as it happens, my own children were born.

As I emerged from the lane back onto the main road a car pulled up and it wasn’t until “Heather!” came through its window that I saw that it was one of the Heptonstall residents. I’d painted a watercolour of poppies for the poppy display in Heptonstall church and the lady had been responsible for coordinating it. I’d dropped it off at The Cross a couple of evenings ago and now she was explaining to me where it could be found.

However, when I arrived at the church the door was locked, it still being quite early. However, the Tea Room was already open and I called in for a couple of their delicious cakes to take home with me.

Back down in Hebden I passed St James’s church where I’ve been in to practice the organ in readiness for the Remembrance service on Sunday. I hadn’t been in the building for two years let alone played any music there. A group of people had been putting up a display there, an enormous blanket of knitted poppies , a painted sheet of poppies and displays about the lives of local residents who had lost their lives in WWl. Three brothers were commemorated, and they were related to me. I’d already researched their story and found their memorial in the cemetery but today three balloons had been placed on the headstone. They are buried in Europe where they fell.

• 

• 

• 

If I’d have looked out of my living room window any day between 1912 and 1921 I would have found myself looking directly onto The Royal Electric Theatre. In 1921 the ‘new’ picture house opened just a few hundred yards away and this cinema is currently celebrating its 100th year – the only cinema in England to have achieved that milestone.

‘In the late 1960s, when many of the mills had closed, the Picture House nearly suffered the fate of so many town cinemas and was very close to becoming a carpet warehouse. It was saved for the town by the actions of the then Hebden Royd Urban District Council who purchased the Picture House from its private owners for the sum of about £6,000. The cinema passed into Calderdale Councils control with local government reorganisation in 1973, and CMBC oversaw a subsequent refurbishment in 1978, removing half of the seats and leaving the current 492 seats with their often praised generous legroom.’ (From the cinema’s website).

I read that there was on open day at the Picture House yesterday and so off I went. It took me exactly 2 minutes – and most of that time was spent waiting to cross the road! First order of the day was to witness a demonstration of one of the old projection devices which currently has pride of place at the back of the stalls. The current projectionist explained that there would have been 2 such contraptions originally. It actually looks like something from a sci fi movie!

Next we were treated to a 1924 silent movie of Hebden Bridge band Carnival film. The local brass band had a stellar reputation (see my blog about my ancestor Stott Gibson who played in it: http://blog.hmcreativelady.com/?s=stott+gibson

but they were in financial difficulties. Travelling to far venues for competitions was costly so a carnival was planned. Pathe film company would film the event, hopefully including many of the crowd watching the parade. The parade itself was over a mile in length, and there was a fancy dress competition at the end of the day. Money would be raised by people attending a viewing of the movie at the cinema, hoping to see themselves on camera. The venture was so successful that it was repeated the following year. Though only 12 minutes long the movie gives a wonderful insight into people’s everyday life – their sense of fun, their eagerness to dress up in crazy outfits (the spectators as well as those entering the fancy dress competition), their ‘normal’ daily clothes, transportation, and a sense of fun that was being mirrored as I watched by the Pink Pride Picnic that was taking place in the park just outside.

After the movie there was a Q and A with Ben Burrows, the composer of the music that he been written to accompany the silent film. The Treske Ensemble had recorded the music in London. A pity about the rather large spelling error on the banner behind him. Diana Monahan from the local history society had done research into the carnival and had mapped out the route that the floats had taken.

A corner of the cinema had been given over to a wonderful model of the original electric theatre and I chatted with its maker, Ray Barnes.

He had chosen that particular scale because it’s used in model railways and so he was able to purchase the figurines, but he had to repaint them with appropriate attire. The projection box was upstairs at the front of the building. People in the expensive seats – 3d – entered at the front. Those bound for the cheap seats went in through a side entrance.

It was designed by Henry Cockcroft, a Hebden Bridge architect who had been responsible for designing the trestle bridge at Blake Dean from which one of my ancestors fell (see blog about Ada Harwood: http://blog.hmcreativelady.com/2021/03/01/adas-tragic-death/

Then, to my surprise, Ray took off the roof of the model and I saw its interior, with many people enjoying a film. The men’s toilet was outside, but there was a ladies’ toilet inside the cinema and he’d even recreated this, with a woman going about her business!!! What a wonderful Lockdown project Ray had created.

You can watch the 1924 silent film for free via the Yorkshire Film Archives

https://www.yfanefa.com/record/11947

‘Nestled above the hustle and bustle of Halifax Borough Market are two secret streets that are so well hidden that you may not even know about them.’ How many times have I walked around the stalls of the market and not known that above me were two streets with houses – and even a hotel!

These streets are some of Halifax’s most unique houses that run alongside the roof of the market and also look out onto the streets of the town. They used to be home to the market workers, who could then access their stalls below from their own homes. The street of terraced houses was also home to an old Victorian hotel above the high roof of the market.

The tour was part of the Halifax cultural exhibition and the guide was a man who had lived and breathed the markets of Calderdale for over 40 years. He even lives in a house perched high above the market stalls, and accessed, as he was careful to point out, by 47 steps! Talk about living on the job! He oversees Hebden Bridge, Todmorden, Brighouse, Elland and Halifax Markets. He explained how the Halifax Market is being revamped, with ideas for evening openings and even a small live performance venue being incorporated. Under his supervision Elland market has grown from just a couple of stalls to over 20. However, it looks as if Sowerby bridge market is definitely on its last legs.

Access to the streets was by a simple door adjacent to the large original historic gates into the Victorian market. A market has been in Halifax since the 1200s when it first gained a charter. There are hopes that the houses in the sky can eventually be restored and reoccupied. Two of them currently hold small offices but the rest have been empty since the 1990s but the decor was SO 60s. The colours were utterly amazing. It was wonderful and so totally unexpected. We were able to go and explore two of the houses. One was a 5 bedroomed affair.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

While at Dean Clough last week I picked up information about the upcoming Halifax Heritage Festival. There were lots of interesting events and exhibitions and the first one I attended was an organ recital in Halifax minster. I arrived early to view the exhibition put on by the Piecemakers of Elland. The 21 individually designed panels reflect the mythology, folklore and distinctive features of the native trees of Great Britain as depicted in the Celtic Ogham, an ancient alphabet and calendar including trees such as the Oak, Apple, Willow and Ash.

The Piecemakers Artistic Lead, Annie Lancaster said: “Each panel depicts one tree featuring the letter and number of the tree plus details relating to mythology, history, botany, pharmacology and religion of that tree and also highlights the importance of bees in pollination.” One panel was devoted to Heather so naturally that took a lot of my attention. The details of the workmanship and the creativity of the design of the panels was inspiring. I’ve been working on many of my own fabric panels during lockdown so it fascinating to see what other people have been working on.

• 

• 

It’s been a while since I posted any ancestral info on this blog but here’s another branch of my family who kept pubs in Hebden Bridge and Heptonstall.

Living just a couple of  houses away from William Wilkinson at Old Chamber in 1841 was a slater named John Taylor, his wife Mary and their seven children. At the time there were eighteen households in this tiny hamlet and so everyone must have known each other well.

In fact the Wilkinson and the Taylors had two of their children baptized at Heptonstall church on the same day, December 29, 1836  –   Rachel Taylor and Sarah Jane Wilkinson. The towers of both the old church and the new church that was  built in the early 1850s are visible from Old Chamber today though now they peak out above trees that shroud the packed gravestones, a place that was then bereft of trees. Did the two families share a ride to Heptonstall church in a cart?

 Born in the parish of Warley in 1801, John had been a plasterer by trade when he married Mary Greenwood also of Warley at St John’s Halifax in the summer of 1822. I wonder why they didn’t marry at St Mary’s  church in Luddenden which served Warley parish.  Mary had been born in the hilltop village of Midgley in 1804.  During the following 23 years the couple would have ten children. The older children were baptized at St Mary’s church, Luddenden, so it was in  Luddenden that I began my day with the Taylors. It was Easter Sunday, 2021 so armed with a couple of Cadbury’s creme eggs in case I got peckish on my travels I took the ten minute bus ride to Luddenden Foot and then followed the course of Luddenden Brook upstream. After about ten minutes I passed the ancient Kershaw House which I think always looks ill at ease , surrounded on all sides by an interwar and postwar housing development. Kershaw House, now a Grade l listed building predates these more recent homes by a staggering three hundred years and there was a house on the site for two hundred years before that. During the building boom of the 1960s the rambling mansion with its many windows and its unique Tudor rose stained glass window with unusual diamond shaped lights was converted to an inn and though I’d have welcomed a beer there today, as I’ve done before,  it is of course currently closed. As I stopped to take a photo of the side of the building I noticed a sign pointing to a building at the rear of the inn’s car park – Little Foot Day nursery.

Seeped by the American folklore tales of the ape-like creature that inhabits the forests of North America known as Big Foot I couldn’t help but smile. I followed the river walk, the sides of the valley coming ever closer, and arrived in the heart of the village with its beautiful cottages today bedecked in their finest Spring colours despite the fact Luddenden is so deep in Calderdale that the sun does not find it after October7.[1]

With its old stone houses all huddled together on various levels of the hillsides and its waterfall and sixteenth century bridge in the centre of the village many artists and photographers have made it the subject of their work. Poet laureate Simon Armitage made it the subject of the  poem ‘Full moon’ in which he makes up words to rhyme with the strangely named village. Pink blossoms of flowering cherry trees fell gently onto the stone flags on which I walked while tubs of daffodils, narcissus and aubreita radiated their colours in the multitudinous nooks and crannies between the houses bearing  testament the village’s gold medal award in Yorkshire in Bloom competition in 2012. These Luddendenites are rightly proud of their beautification of the village.

Even the trash bin on the riverside walk is embossed with a date – 1989, alongside  a Yorkshire rose. Four hundred years ago  Luddenden Valley was one of the richest places in the country, as yeoman clothiers sold textiles all over England and exported to Europe. They built some of the finest houses in the Luddenden area during this time.[2] In fact, there are said to be more houses of 17th and 18th century origin in the Luddenden Valley than any other comparable area in the country.[3] I was fortunate enough to be a guest of the High Sheriff of West Yorkshire at one of these houses, Peel House,  for a Christmas eve celebration in 2019. Built in 1598 it is the oldest known house still in use in Luddenden and its interior preserves many of its original features.

 I passed the Lord Nelson pub where a library was in use from 1776-1917. It is particularly of note because of its association with Branwell Bronte, who used to frequent it when working as a booking clerk at Luddendenfoot station, and living at Brearley Hall, another home of my ancestors whose story can be found in another chapter. Four years ago The Lord Nelson had provided much needed sustenance for Sarah and myself following our climb to Stoodley Pike, but of course it is now closed.  Following the river, whose roar gives the village its Anglo Saxon name  – a clearing in the valley of the loud river – I came to St Mary’s church where some of the Taylor children were baptised. A path around the gothic style church is made up of gravestones dating back to the 1700s and in places stairs have been made, also out of gravestones. Part of the cemetery wall has gravestones propped up against it. Little remains of the original church, built here in 1536 but it was demolished in 1814 and rebuilt, opening in 1817.  The only fabric surviving from this building are some window mullions incorporated into the interior nave walls of the present building, and also three human mask corbels set into the West boundary of the churchyard. So when John, son of James Taylor, a plasterer by trade, and his wife Mary was baptised in  Luddenden it would have been at the old church but by the time John’s own children were baptised the ceremony  would have taken place in the newly erected church.  Today I was surprised to see the church door open. Not only that but someone inside greeted me with “Hello, do come in.” Once inside I was handed a palm cross, reminding me that it was in fact Palm Sunday. At Turton church as a child I would be given a palm cross in the service – a tradition I’d completely forgotten about until this moment. I remarked that Luddenden isn’t on the tourist trail in the same way that Heptonstall is, a village of a similar size. “We like it that way,” came the immediate response.   I looked for the memorial to Rev. William Grimshaw, buried here in 1763, by the side of his first wife. I keep crossing paths with him in my research.  His brother John had been incumbent at Cross Stone church where many of my ancestors were married and buried, before taking up that position at  Luddenden.

I carried on along the track above Luddenden Brook passing the remains of former mills and long flights of well worn stairs leading from them up the near vertical hillside to the workers’ houses.

Interspersed between the ruined walls of Peel House mill was an allotment. But this was no ordinary allotment. I could barely believe what I was seeing. A conglomeration of wooden sheds, one of which was invitingly named the Bug Hotel, were surrounded by neatly stacked wood piles which had taken on more the guise of elaborate sculptures than mere repositories for wood.  An old caravan was surrounded by soft velvet sofas and a leather arm chair. A terracotta house chimney was set out on the lawn,  filled with an attractive display of dried grasses while green wheelbarrows stood proudly against a red shed, newly painted.

• 

• 

• 

Amidst all this chickens pecked and geese strutted, evidently eyeing up this stranger. It reminded me that I was feeling peckish too so I took out a chocolate egg to munched on.  At that very moment a man walked up the track towards me but before I could say hello he had turned off and yes, he was opening the gate into the allotment. He invited me in and told me his story. A dry stone waller by profession he’s kept the allotment for twenty years, nurturing its every need. He repaints all the sheds every year and has several fire pits strewn around the property for warmth in winter.  When I took my leave of  —- and his  – –  — – my two Cadbury’s eggs had been consumed but had been replaced with half a dozen eggs supplied by the residents of the Bug Hotel.

As I retraced my steps passing St Mary’s I thought of Paul Taylor being baptized there in the depths of winter, on December 20, 1829, Anna’s birthday. By 1832 the family had moved to Old Chamber as seen by the baptism record of Paul’s brother James. By the next census two more children had been born, Greenwood (his mother’s maiden name) and Betty. It appears that John has given up being a slater and is now a farmer of 18 acres and the census specifically states that he has no labourers suggesting that this would be rare. Hannah, is a servant, Paul and John are plasterers, James is a scholar- at 19? Rachel is a factory labourer, Henry is an agricultural labourer, Greenwood and Betty are scholars and visiting  them  is Mary’s mother, Hannah Greenwood, now 64 and  also born in Midgley.

On 2^nd April 1854 Paul married Sarah Ann Gibson at St John’s, Halifax, and it’s through her that I am connected to the Taylor family. Her brother Thomas, a butcher, was a witness at their wedding.  Sarah Ann is Joshua Gibson’s daughter and had grown up at The Bull Inn where her father was the landlord until he took his own life in 1858. During the next 16 years Paul and Sarah Ann had ten children. At some point, perhaps when they got married, they moved down into the valley and settled in Hebden Bridge  for in 1861 they are running a beerhouse on Bridge Lanes just steps away from The Bull Inn. Besides running the pub Paul is also a slater, just like his father.  Living with them is Sarah’s brother Richard Gibson, a machinist and millwright, who, like his father, would take his own life, as  would his wife Rose causing  the newspaper to headline the column  ‘Is suicide hereditary? ‘ [4] In the 1871 census Paul is listed as both  a beershop keeper and slater – reflecting his previous and current businesses. Their son John, 16,  is a cotton weaver and  daughter Sarah, now  14,  is a sewing machinist. This is highly significant because she would marry Richard Redman because she played a pivotal role  in the establishment of Redman empire, a highly successful international sewing company whose story is told in another chapter.  Richard, 12, mule piecer as is his brother Willie, aged 9!

But which pub were Paul and Sarah Ann keeping? The tightly packed community known as Bridge Lanes was a conglomeration of streets connected by stone steps on the West end of the town centre, demolished in the 1960s and there is little left of details of the area. However, the earliest reference to a named pub that the Taylors ran was in 1875 when they were keeping The Fox and Goose. Oh my. When the floods of February 2020 in Hebden prevented me from accessing my home after playing the organ for the service at Heptonstall church I sought refuge in The Fox and Goose, primarily because its location is slightly elevated from the centre of town and was therefore above water! Along with other refuge seekers, some visiting the town on holiday, I was provided with warm food and as much tea as I could cope with. I was so grateful. What a surprise to find that my ancestors had been the landlord here 145 years before. I hope they were as kind and inviting to their customers as today’s landlord is. I later found a reference in a local paper that the Taylors had been running the Fox and Goose for 42 years when the article was written in 1899, placing the Taylor family as residents there from 1857. [5]

I retraced my steps along Luddenden Brook and jumped on a bus heading back into Hebden Bridge, alighting at the turning circle at the bottom of Heptonstall Road. Now that I knew of my family connection to the Fox and Goose I was eager to pay that hostelry another visit.  West Yorkshire’s first community owned pub and Calderdale’s pub of the year in 2019 has a couple of benches outside the front door and a man who I took to be connected with the business was sitting, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. I explained my mission and asked if he knew anything about the history of the building or its former landlords. “Well, it was built as an inn in the early 1300s according to the documents held in Wakefield but I don’t know much else until the 60’s” “The 1360s?’ I inquired. “No, the 1960s.” He invited me to forward anything I found out about the pub’s history to him.

As I took my leave he looked forward to welcoming me into the pub when it reopens. As  I thanked him I recalled an incident when landlord Paul may have ben a little too welcoming.

 In 1875 Paul was charged with permitting drunkenness on his premises between 10 and 11 pm. When two bobbies entered the premises they found Paul Taylor in the taproom, along with James Clayton, the blacksmith, with a mug of beer in front of him and ‘another man in who was fresh.’ Paul was fined 20s. In the same year it appears that the same two bobbies were again on Paul’s trail. This time Paul and another man were spotted by the two plain clothed bobbies  playing cards ‘on the Lord’s day’ at Rawtenstall wood, the very steep hill that rises directly above the pub,  – and gambling. Greenwood was captured on the spot but Taylor ran off but took his cap off and looked back. One bobby said “That’s Paul Taylor, the landlord.” Greenwood was taken to the lock up. Taylor denied being there and called others as witnesses who supported his claim and his case was adjourned. I’ll never be able to wander around that wood just above Bridge Lanes again without looking out for those plain clothed bobbies!

While this incident had a comedic element to it in today’s world five years later tragedy befell Paul and his wife when their six year old son, Frank, drowned on his way home from school, St James’s, Mytholm.  It was the depths of winter, February 1880.  Frank was dismissed from school at 4:10. It would have been  totally dark by that time but there was a lit gaslight close by. Frank clambered over the wall opposite the school and climbed down to the river where the school children were known to like to slide on the frozen dam.  Below the dam, was the ‘panhole’ – a hole four feet deep, with no fencing around it, just below a small waterfall.  Frank balanced on some ice on the frozen Colden Beck and reached into the panhole to gather some ice. Someone on the bridge saw him fall into the panhole and Richard Mellor, the schoolmaster was summoned and was quickly on the scene. Mellor could just see the top of Frank’s head peeking above the hole.  He managed to retrieve Frank but his attempts to resuscitate him failed.

• 

• 

• 

Frank’s body was taken to his home at the Fox and Goose, just five minutes walk from the school. His dad was out feeding the pigs at the time but within minutes a doctor was called for, but his efforts too were in vain. The shock for his parents and five siblings is unfathomable. They had already lost one son, Gibson, who had died a few months short of his second birthday.  At the inquest into Frank’s death held at the Bull Inn, Frank’s mother’s former home, in giving evidence the schoolmaster commented that  “If P.C. Eastwood would visit the school and give a warning to the scholars it would no doubt frighten them for a time.” The school lies just a few hundred yards up Church Lane and I crossed over the Colden River on Bankfoot bridge where, in the Taylor family’s day stood Bankfoot Mill, spinning and weaving.  St James’s church where I sometimes play the organ for services was to my right and directly behind it is the school that Frank attended. The school was established in 1870 and funded by public subscription- …”a school shall be established for the education of children and adults or children only of the labouring, manufacturing, and other poorer crafts of the ecclesiastical district of Hebden Bridge…”[6] Originally it was a single storey building and all the children were taught together. However, in 1880, the year of the tragedy,  it was decided to separate the ‘Mixed’ from the ‘Infants’ with Richard Mellor head of the mixed and Mrs Mellor head of the infants. In 1888 a second storey was added for the needs of the growing population and I’m proud to say that my Wrigley ancestors were employed to carry out the painting. So from the Fox and Goose I headed to St James’s school and the scene of Frank’s death. Passing the former site of Bankfoot Mill, a spinning and weaving mill that would have been a hive of activity at the time but which was demolished in 1971. Mytholm school lies directly behind St James’s church, The site for both had been donated by James Armitage Rhodes of Mytholm Hall. He had reserved a piece of triangular land behind the church. “I reserved it for a School: but I subsequently thought that it was too dark – as light is essential to the well conducting a School.”[7] A low stone wall, barely two feet surrounds the perimeter of the school and directly below the ground drops vertically to the river. I could make out a weir, which is probably ‘the waterfall’ referred to in the inquest into Frank’s death as I stood on the bridge, probably standing in the very spot from where the schoolmaster could see Frank’s head peeking above the hole.

By the time of the 1881 census Paul’s children Richard, John and Sarah had all married and set up homes close by. The most interesting of these marriage from my family history’s perspective is that of Sarah who had married Richard Redman in the summer previous to Frank’s death. This means that Sarah is connected to me twice over! Sarah was a sewing machinist, as were her sisters Annie and Mary,  and her pivotal role in the development of  her husband’s clothing manufacturing business, which developed into an international concern is the subject of another chapter.  But I was to come across the name of the school master who had tried to save Frank’s life again in my research, finding that I am, in fact, a distant relative. Paul’s daughter, Mary married the school master’s son, Thomas Cooper Mellor in 1892 at, where else, but St James’s church. Their marriage certificate bears their two signatures but it also includes the signature of Richard Mellors, a witness to their marriage and school teacher to Paul’s children. 

Meanwhile back at the ranch Paul was having problems with the privy. Back in 1878 Paul had been required to undertake the drainage and completion of closets to his houses at newgate end as per plans submitted to the board. But four years later it was reported in the Todmorden Advertiser that ‘ there is a continual nuisance in and about the privy belonging to Paul Taylor, Newgate end  which is caused by the defective drains of the 2 cottages belonging to Thomas Sutcliffe.’  Eight years later Paul and his sanitary conditions was still making the newspaper columns when

1890 building and nuisance committee abate a nuisance arising from a defective urinal. But ten years later Paul’s connection with another story in the paper is no laughing matter. By this time their daughter Ellen is 35 and living at home, as are her sister Mary, a fustian tailoress and brother James, a clerk for a courier. Ellen had no occupation listed on the census of 1891 which is very unusual. She ‘helped around the house’ we are told by her father. Following a serious bout of influenza she had been afflicted with much pain in her head and back and had been attended to by the local doctor. Shortly after her brother Richard and his wife went away on holiday to Blackpool for a few days and had given their house key to Ellen so that she could look after the cat, the dog and the bird while they were away. During this period Ellen had left the Fox and Goose but didn’t return that night. Her parents were not anxious. They thought that she’d gone up to Heptonstall to help her sister look after a boy who was ill for  Annie was now keeping  the White Lion in Heptonstall with her husband, John Butterworth. When Richard returned from his holiday he called in at the Fox and Goose to get his key back from Ellen but found that she hadn’t been home the previous  night. When the family checked with her sister and found that she hadn’t been to the White Lion they went to Richard’s house, broke down the door, it being barred on the inside. Laid out on the bed, fully clothed was Ellen, a handkerchief tied around her head is if to reduce the pain there. The door crevices had been filled with brown paper and  her petticoat had been stuffed at the bottom of the door. The gas tap was open at full. “I should say she had been driven crazy with pain,” stated Mr Clay at the inquest and a  verdict was returned –  that she had suffocated herself with coal gas while in an unsound state of mind.” Perhaps the first thing that came to mind when I read this was the suicide of Sylvia Plath, wife of the poet laureate Ted Hughes whose demise has been recounted in detail in several films and biographies. A much less detailed account was the attempted suicide of my grandmother’s second husband, Harry Hall, just days after their marriage.  He survived and lived for four more years dying of natural causes –  in the county mental hospital.

Nine months after Ellen’s death a temporary transfer of the beer license took place between John Butterworth, Annie’s husband, at the White Lion and Paul Taylor of the Fox and Goose. So Paul and Sarah Ann move up to run the White Lion and two months later Paul’s next appearance in the newspaper is something very close to my own heart. At Todmorden petty sessions Paul applies for an extension of the inn’s opening hours for a very special occasion: the Heptonstall Brass band contest. He is granted  ‘an occasional license’ which allowed him to open the pub from 2-8p.m. on that one Saturday for the event. 14 brass bands entered from as far away as Derbyshire but two didn’t show up. The contest, lasting 4 hours, at which it was noted that ‘at least one female watched the contest for the whole 4 hours.’ [8] took place on a grassy field close to the school and ‘the weather was beautiful and the green pasture land for miles around afforded an admirable spectacle for visitors. ‘ [9]’At the end of the performances the crowd gathered around the enclosure to await the decision of the judge. When the first prize was awarded to Rochdale public band the decision was ‘received with uproarious shouting.’ After the contest a gala was held when, according to the rules, the winning band played until dusk. Unfortunately Rochdale public band had failed to bring any other music apart from the contest music with them. I wondered if they thought they had no chance of winning, or whether it was merely an oversight.  However, Heptonstall band, who had not participated in the contest, came to the rescue and provided music and the dancers were kept alive til 8 o’clock. The District News then reprints the judge’s remarks for all the bands in their entirety.  As I read phrases such as ‘in the Cantabile section the trombone should try to kill that nervousness’ and ‘euphonium did not play bar 4 correct’ ‘crescendo in bar 9 too abrupt,’  ‘accompaniment not in sympathy with the melody,’  and ‘accompaniments not dead in tune: a little wolfy,’ I laughed out loud. Nothing has changed in 120 years! My experience as both a classical music critic for newspaper and magazines, an evaluator for piano exams and my time playing and composing works for concert band makes me relish these descriptions.  

With my headphones I listened again to a CD of band music recorded  in 2018 by Halifax Concert band on which I was a participant I girded my loins for the steep climb to Heptonstall. Passing the overgrown wasteland that once was home to the thriving community of Bridge Lanes and then passing Lily Hall, the genesis of my story, I arrived at the cobbled street in the centre of Heptonstall. To my left the tower of the church where  . . . .  and passing The Cross pub on my right I arrived at The White Lion, the inn operated by Paul’s son-in-law John Butterworth, and then for a brief time by Paul himself during the band contect.  As I sat on the picnic table outside the pub, the penultimate piece on the CD, settled themselves in my ears: ‘Once Upon a Time in America,’ by Ennio Morricone.

I retraced my steps down Heptonstall Road where the last building on the right is the Fox and Goose where three years after the excitement of the brass band contest Paul was fined 5s for being drunk in charge of a horse and cart. Once the Butterworths had taken over its running Paul and Sarah Ann lived out the rest of their lives at 3 Heptonstall Road. I have an inkling that it may have been on the site that is now the pub’s beer garden, elevated high above the road, from where an overgrown track leads through Rawtenstall Woods.

Paul died in 1904 and Sarah Ann, seven years later, living at 3 Heptonstall Road.  Finding 3 Heptonstall Road was more tricky than I anticipated, but there were clues. The pub is now numbered #7 Heptonstall Road yet it’s the first building on the street. I returned to the pub several months later when the pandemic restrictions had been lifted. It’s a lovely old world pub exuding a feeling of community with its area divided into small rooms with quaint signs indicating their names. The small room next to the toilets is ‘The Waiting Room.’ Historical photographs line the uneven stone walls , interspersed with historic beer mats and framed certificates for Best pub of the Year. A photo of the inn dated 1960s showed rubble adjoining the left side of the pub on the almost vertical hillside and to its left the end of what appeared to be a terrace of houses, taller than the pub. To the left of the pub today is the elevated beer garden, access being gained from a flight of very step stairs within the pub. Below the beer garden a fenced area hides a small yard where the rubbish bins are stored. In another room an older photo shows just the glimpse of a four storey building that was once attached to the pub. Outside in the front street hangs a line of washing. The photo is titled ‘Fox and Goose 1905 when Whittakers “cock o’ the north” brewery from Halifax took over the pub.

Paul Taylor had died the previous year while living at 3 Heptonstall Road, the running of the pub having been transferred to his son-in-law John Butterworth. Sarah Ann remained at #3 until her death in September, 1911, so the washing outside the house was hers! I headed up the steep stairs carefully balancing my glass of cider and found a seat in the beer garden, now sporting a rainproof roof, a sign of the changing times. I was sitting in the very spot that housed Sarah Ann and Paul in their retirement, imbibing a cool  drink from the pub that they’d operated for over forty years.

I completed my day with the Taylors in the cemetery where Paul and Sarah Ann are buried along with Paul’s parents John and Mary who remained living at Old Chamber until their deaths in 1879 and 1883. Also buried in the same plot are Mary’s parents, Paul and Hannah Greenwood of Old Chamber.

In January 1876 the following notice was issued in the Todmorden Advertiser regarding Paul’s brother, John: “John Taylor of Stubbin Wharf beerhouse, King-street, Hebden Bridge, for being drunk in his own house on the 1st instant, fined 10s, costs 9s.– P.S. Eastwood said a valuation was being taken of the stock ; defendant meant to give up the house.” Paul’s brother, Henry, was landlord of Stubbing Wharf from 1877 and he died there on May 20th, 1892. Like his brother he was buried at St James’s Church in Hebden Bridge. Just two weeks later the license was transferred to his widow, Betty, nee Normanton. How strange to realise that soon after moving to Hebden Bridge Stubbing Wharf pub became the place I would take visitors to with its gentle walk along the canal from the town centre. I even attended a birthday party there in honour of Ted Hughes who wrote a poem about the pub.

Last time my daughters visited me we enjoyed an evening in the pub looking at old family photos little knowing of our family’s connection with the place!

---

[1] Lilian Robinson (ed.), The Court Rolls of the Manor of Wakefield from October 1651

     to September 1652 (1990) quoted: http://midgleywebpages.com/midgleywest.html#settlements

[2] https://www.calderdale.gov.uk/v2/sites/default/files/luddenden-appraisal.pdf

[3] https://www.calderdale.gov.uk/v2/sites/default/files/luddenden-appraisal.pdf

[4] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0001940/19100729/050/0003?browse=False

[5] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/BL/0001940/18990811/084/0005?browse=False

[6] http://www.hebdenbridgehistory.org.uk/charlestown/mytholm.html#school

[7] http://www.hebdenbridgehistory.org.uk/charlestown/mytholm.html#school

[8] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0001940/19000601/077/0003

[9] https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0002124/19000601/066/0007