Day 7: Tuesday 27th September
Day 6 Addendum: the military chapel in Durham cathedral reveals that the Durham Light Infantry lost fifty-five people on just one day in September 1915. It makes you think… (to quote Accenture)
It turns out that, after his outing last night, D isn’t exactly bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready for an early start. Once again I take time to feel smug at not drinking. There’s no argument about whose turn it is to drive as we head south-west into the Yorkshire Dales. Near Catterick, I spot one of those classic reassuring signs:
Into Coverdale, the roads get even more entertaining. This is, I reflect proper Postman Pat / Bill Bryson country. Or so I assume. As D dozes groggily in the passenger seat, and Radio 2 presents the case of those pensioners who were jailed for not paying their council tax, I giggle childishly as the road climbs skywards like the start of a rollercoaster. At length we descend steeply into Kettlewell and stop at the village store. Whilst we wait for Wensleydale rolls and tea, I look around the shop. There’s a card advertising a car for sale; telephone, or call at the vicarage. I turn around and there’s the car, parked across the street. Not a big village, then. I rather wonder what it is people do out here; they can’t all be farmers, but it feels like we must be a long way from any big towns (indeed as I look at the road atlas now, the Yorkshire Dales look incredibly remote. I’ve just looked online and found a big farmhouse for sale at the end of a cul-de-sac four miles long. And here I am complaining that it takes fourteen minutes on the train to get to Bath…). As I stand by the car (which I’m not convinced is well enough parked to be left alone), some walkers come by. “Do you know your lights are on?” asks an anoraked woman. “Yes I do, thank you,” I reply. It was meant to sound cheery and thankful but I know instantly that it probably didn’t. Yet another episode to store in ‘painful interactions with strangers’.
We’re soon underway again, and I spot a road sign telling me it’s eleven miles to the home of a good friend from college. Too bad I don’t have his phone number or address. I emailed him when I got home and mentioned how close I’d passed, and he hasn’t spoken to me since. Hmmmm. We stop at a roadside burger-van so D can get more food. Apparently this helps counteract the alcohol-induced misery. Then onward, past Keighley in only two attempts, onto the moors towards Hebden Bridge. It hasn’t yet ceased to amaze me how the big northern cities are right up close to the rugged northern landscapes; somehow I expect industrial cities to exist in the middle of barren plains, in complete isolation from interesting terrain. Not sure why I expect that, since even Bath, Bristol and Swindon have some reasonably-interesting-albeit-in-a-half-hearted-soft-Southern-way countryside around them. Still the proximity of wily, windy moors to modern cities where they talk funny [just spotted Blackburn and Burnley on the map] surprises me. On the radio, some blustering Tory MP insists that the UK has more in common with America than Europe, and tars the likes of me with the brush of ‘elite left-wing liberals’. I’m quite pleased with that.
Presently we reach Hebden Bridge, a place of which I’ve repeatedly read and looked forward to seeing. Unfortunately the only anecdotes I can remember are that they have houses built one on top of the other, and an abnormally high proportion of lesbians. I regard the local bluestockings with an unusually analytical eye, but find no clear evidence of rampant Sapphic intrigue. Aside from this, the place is a bit of a Bradford-on-Avon of the north; pretty but steep and somewhat cramped, traffic being funnelled through narrow streets making it a less-than-pleasant place to walk unless you stick by the canal or the parks. In places it certainly is ‘bohemian’, an adjective that has never properly differentiated itself from ‘scruffy’ in my repressed wannabe-middle-class mind. By the canal we find some newly-converted houses that are quite the opposite; low-key but smart and expensive, the sort of place a youngish accountant commutes from. Outside one, a man has extracted himself from his BMW Z4; he smiles as we pass, the smile that says “I’m an all-round nice guy, have a nice day, but why are you walking along here, you look slightly out of place and you can get to the canal the other way you know”. Anyway between one extreme and the other I’m pretty impressed by the place; D, on the other hand, is putting on a passable impression of a petulant child after 45 minutes and doesn’t want to walk around here any more.
So, off we tootle, and I’m soon pleasantly surprised to discover that the headquarters of the Halifax is in… Halifax! Superb. We pass through bits of Lancashire, where the A-roads all seem to be rated at 30mph and about as well maintained as the roads in Wiltshire. Eugh. Luckily we soon reach the Derbyshire Peak District, allowing me to say yet again “so, this is where ___ at college is coming from”. And, of course, reminisce about Peak Practice.
Principal lessons on this trip have been the drama, beauty and indeed the size of the country. And if Wiltshire is wussy compared to all this rugged northern stuff, the landscape of Cambridgeshire is practically non-existent. It does strike me that the country is big enough for Cambridge degrees to be relatively rare, a thought that doesn’t tend to crop up in my usual company. Which is vaguely encouraging.
Eventually, seven hours after setting out, we arrive (by a somewhat suboptimal route) at the inn at Bugsworth or Buxworth in the High Peak, twinned with Clayton, California. Or something. Apparently the place was once owned by some woman off of Corrie, and a sign by the door suggests it ‘probably the best pub in the world’, but to me it has more than a little of the Leaky Cauldron about it. I’m relieved that this is to be the last night stop. (I’m missing more or less everyone by now, not that I expect to see most of them any time soon anyway).
Outside is an extensive old canal basin, now restored with lots of informative notices. The first one I read tells me that this was the scene of a brutal murder that led in 1898 to the last public hanging at Derby Gaol. So when I say the whole place has a sinister, timewarp air you might begin to understand why. Oddly, despite being old-fashioned and rural, and hills are in sight, there’s a very busy road somewhere just out of sight, and we’re obviously not too far from an airport. I don my backpack and, as always in a windy outdoor setting near water these days, am reminded of the Lovely Alice Roberts. Honestly. Following a footpath up the embankment I find the road – I think it’s the A6, a dual carriageway carving through the landscape in a way quite unlike all the minor roads we’ve followed. Another effect of the realisation that the country is actually pretty big, is that whether or not I use a car or a bike to get to the shops makes an infinitesimal difference even on a British scale, which must itself be tiny compared to the US or China or whatever. Still, every little helps I suppose. Every black raven, etc… The traffic is actually rather sparse, but very fast, hence the noise. It’s really quite scary to stand on the footbridge as cars pass 10 metres below at 80mph, so I soon retreat to explore the canal basin. It’s fun to explore, but I still fear that I’ll end up having to do so all on my own in the absence of a camera crew, attractive red-haired female anthropologist, or indeed enthusiastic friends. But time will tell. One thing’s for sure, it’d be pretty difficult to navigate such a wilfully perverse route, even with satnav, without an accompanying navigator.
What with the canal, lime kilns, and the deeply sinister little river Blackbrook, this must have been a busy location for at least a couple of centuries, even in the absence of the A6. But it’s easy to fall into the assumption nowadays that canals are just there for recreational purposes.
Inside, the place is – and I don’t wish to be unfair – something of a lesson in how not to run a B&B. Our room has discoloured wallpaper, noisy plumbing, lacks such luxuries as glasses, a teapot, or a hand-towel, and everything but the TV looks at least thirty years old. Oh and the latter can provide only three channels. BBC1, BBC2 and MTV or something similarly unlikely.
Downstairs, everything including the menus is shabby and old. Honestly, print some new ones, it’ll cost like £5. The vegetarian menu is predictably limited, though I am of course limited by my own ridiculous, crippling alcohol-avoidance and unwillingness to engage in ‘special order’ negotiations. The food is perfectly acceptable but like everything else seems not to have changed for years, including the waitress’s script (she doesn’t give the impression of making up her own sentence). So you might say it’s hard to feel comfortable.
The other clientele are rather few – a table of middle-agers who’ve apparently come in from a canal boat – and rather strange. Overheard, on Dan Brown: “He’s a very clever writer” / “It’s easy reading, there’s no mental stimulation”. I can’t tell whether they’re pro or anti.
There seems to be nobody at the bar either except the slightly sinister staff and dog (it might be that everyone is at home watching a Manchester United match on TV); all in all this is something of a freakish netherworld and I’m keen to go to sleep, wake up, and leave. So it is that I find myself in bed, lights out, and then realise that I’m above a pub and it’s still open. Takes quite some time to get to sleep, too. But eventually I manage. Hurrah!
{Posted 21:44 on November 7th}
It turns out that, after his outing last night, D isn’t exactly bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready for an early start. Once again I take time to feel smug at not drinking. There’s no argument about whose turn it is to drive as we head south-west into the Yorkshire Dales. Near Catterick, I spot one of those classic reassuring signs:
Caution: Tank Drivers Under InstructionLater, as we get slightly lost amongst tiny lanes,
No Access To The Forbidden CornerWell, of course not. As we wend along five miles of bank-sided single-track lane, I’m thankful that the roads Up North are so quiet. As it happens, just as we turn out onto the [more] major road at the end, a Porsche SUV turns in; good job we weren’t twenty seconds later. Through the drizzle I’m accompanied by Ben Folds’ Jesusland, which has made it onto Radio 2 (not sure of the implications), and the classic Search For The Hero. Hurrah.
Into Coverdale, the roads get even more entertaining. This is, I reflect proper Postman Pat / Bill Bryson country. Or so I assume. As D dozes groggily in the passenger seat, and Radio 2 presents the case of those pensioners who were jailed for not paying their council tax, I giggle childishly as the road climbs skywards like the start of a rollercoaster. At length we descend steeply into Kettlewell and stop at the village store. Whilst we wait for Wensleydale rolls and tea, I look around the shop. There’s a card advertising a car for sale; telephone, or call at the vicarage. I turn around and there’s the car, parked across the street. Not a big village, then. I rather wonder what it is people do out here; they can’t all be farmers, but it feels like we must be a long way from any big towns (indeed as I look at the road atlas now, the Yorkshire Dales look incredibly remote. I’ve just looked online and found a big farmhouse for sale at the end of a cul-de-sac four miles long. And here I am complaining that it takes fourteen minutes on the train to get to Bath…). As I stand by the car (which I’m not convinced is well enough parked to be left alone), some walkers come by. “Do you know your lights are on?” asks an anoraked woman. “Yes I do, thank you,” I reply. It was meant to sound cheery and thankful but I know instantly that it probably didn’t. Yet another episode to store in ‘painful interactions with strangers’.
We’re soon underway again, and I spot a road sign telling me it’s eleven miles to the home of a good friend from college. Too bad I don’t have his phone number or address. I emailed him when I got home and mentioned how close I’d passed, and he hasn’t spoken to me since. Hmmmm. We stop at a roadside burger-van so D can get more food. Apparently this helps counteract the alcohol-induced misery. Then onward, past Keighley in only two attempts, onto the moors towards Hebden Bridge. It hasn’t yet ceased to amaze me how the big northern cities are right up close to the rugged northern landscapes; somehow I expect industrial cities to exist in the middle of barren plains, in complete isolation from interesting terrain. Not sure why I expect that, since even Bath, Bristol and Swindon have some reasonably-interesting-albeit-in-a-half-hearted-soft-Southern-way countryside around them. Still the proximity of wily, windy moors to modern cities where they talk funny [just spotted Blackburn and Burnley on the map] surprises me. On the radio, some blustering Tory MP insists that the UK has more in common with America than Europe, and tars the likes of me with the brush of ‘elite left-wing liberals’. I’m quite pleased with that.
Presently we reach Hebden Bridge, a place of which I’ve repeatedly read and looked forward to seeing. Unfortunately the only anecdotes I can remember are that they have houses built one on top of the other, and an abnormally high proportion of lesbians. I regard the local bluestockings with an unusually analytical eye, but find no clear evidence of rampant Sapphic intrigue. Aside from this, the place is a bit of a Bradford-on-Avon of the north; pretty but steep and somewhat cramped, traffic being funnelled through narrow streets making it a less-than-pleasant place to walk unless you stick by the canal or the parks. In places it certainly is ‘bohemian’, an adjective that has never properly differentiated itself from ‘scruffy’ in my repressed wannabe-middle-class mind. By the canal we find some newly-converted houses that are quite the opposite; low-key but smart and expensive, the sort of place a youngish accountant commutes from. Outside one, a man has extracted himself from his BMW Z4; he smiles as we pass, the smile that says “I’m an all-round nice guy, have a nice day, but why are you walking along here, you look slightly out of place and you can get to the canal the other way you know”. Anyway between one extreme and the other I’m pretty impressed by the place; D, on the other hand, is putting on a passable impression of a petulant child after 45 minutes and doesn’t want to walk around here any more.
So, off we tootle, and I’m soon pleasantly surprised to discover that the headquarters of the Halifax is in… Halifax! Superb. We pass through bits of Lancashire, where the A-roads all seem to be rated at 30mph and about as well maintained as the roads in Wiltshire. Eugh. Luckily we soon reach the Derbyshire Peak District, allowing me to say yet again “so, this is where ___ at college is coming from”. And, of course, reminisce about Peak Practice.
Principal lessons on this trip have been the drama, beauty and indeed the size of the country. And if Wiltshire is wussy compared to all this rugged northern stuff, the landscape of Cambridgeshire is practically non-existent. It does strike me that the country is big enough for Cambridge degrees to be relatively rare, a thought that doesn’t tend to crop up in my usual company. Which is vaguely encouraging.
Eventually, seven hours after setting out, we arrive (by a somewhat suboptimal route) at the inn at Bugsworth or Buxworth in the High Peak, twinned with Clayton, California. Or something. Apparently the place was once owned by some woman off of Corrie, and a sign by the door suggests it ‘probably the best pub in the world’, but to me it has more than a little of the Leaky Cauldron about it. I’m relieved that this is to be the last night stop. (I’m missing more or less everyone by now, not that I expect to see most of them any time soon anyway).
Outside is an extensive old canal basin, now restored with lots of informative notices. The first one I read tells me that this was the scene of a brutal murder that led in 1898 to the last public hanging at Derby Gaol. So when I say the whole place has a sinister, timewarp air you might begin to understand why. Oddly, despite being old-fashioned and rural, and hills are in sight, there’s a very busy road somewhere just out of sight, and we’re obviously not too far from an airport. I don my backpack and, as always in a windy outdoor setting near water these days, am reminded of the Lovely Alice Roberts. Honestly. Following a footpath up the embankment I find the road – I think it’s the A6, a dual carriageway carving through the landscape in a way quite unlike all the minor roads we’ve followed. Another effect of the realisation that the country is actually pretty big, is that whether or not I use a car or a bike to get to the shops makes an infinitesimal difference even on a British scale, which must itself be tiny compared to the US or China or whatever. Still, every little helps I suppose. Every black raven, etc… The traffic is actually rather sparse, but very fast, hence the noise. It’s really quite scary to stand on the footbridge as cars pass 10 metres below at 80mph, so I soon retreat to explore the canal basin. It’s fun to explore, but I still fear that I’ll end up having to do so all on my own in the absence of a camera crew, attractive red-haired female anthropologist, or indeed enthusiastic friends. But time will tell. One thing’s for sure, it’d be pretty difficult to navigate such a wilfully perverse route, even with satnav, without an accompanying navigator.
What with the canal, lime kilns, and the deeply sinister little river Blackbrook, this must have been a busy location for at least a couple of centuries, even in the absence of the A6. But it’s easy to fall into the assumption nowadays that canals are just there for recreational purposes.
Inside, the place is – and I don’t wish to be unfair – something of a lesson in how not to run a B&B. Our room has discoloured wallpaper, noisy plumbing, lacks such luxuries as glasses, a teapot, or a hand-towel, and everything but the TV looks at least thirty years old. Oh and the latter can provide only three channels. BBC1, BBC2 and MTV or something similarly unlikely.
Downstairs, everything including the menus is shabby and old. Honestly, print some new ones, it’ll cost like £5. The vegetarian menu is predictably limited, though I am of course limited by my own ridiculous, crippling alcohol-avoidance and unwillingness to engage in ‘special order’ negotiations. The food is perfectly acceptable but like everything else seems not to have changed for years, including the waitress’s script (she doesn’t give the impression of making up her own sentence). So you might say it’s hard to feel comfortable.
The other clientele are rather few – a table of middle-agers who’ve apparently come in from a canal boat – and rather strange. Overheard, on Dan Brown: “He’s a very clever writer” / “It’s easy reading, there’s no mental stimulation”. I can’t tell whether they’re pro or anti.
There seems to be nobody at the bar either except the slightly sinister staff and dog (it might be that everyone is at home watching a Manchester United match on TV); all in all this is something of a freakish netherworld and I’m keen to go to sleep, wake up, and leave. So it is that I find myself in bed, lights out, and then realise that I’m above a pub and it’s still open. Takes quite some time to get to sleep, too. But eventually I manage. Hurrah!
{Posted 21:44 on November 7th}
posted by Z31 at 7:00 am
4 Comments:
That hurrah is sort of meta- you were asleep, and so unaware that you were asleep- a signal of the eighth instalment to frame the ending, perhaps?
Or maybe that was the beer. Tomorrow morning, I shall play D.
Take Katy.
;-)
TCH
Wow, you really have been drinking. That Shula's a bad influence, I tells ya.
Are you absolutely sure I'm not a bad influence on her?
Not that one excludes the other, I suppose.
Reading back over this, I'm not sure what betrays me as particularly drunken. Spelling, punctuation and pretentious twaddle all very much as it might be when sober. Any hints?
TCH
Reasonably sure, yeah. There isn't a big signpost saying "drunken!" now that I read your comment again, though you final sentence is a little obscure. Put it down to a non-drinkers exquisite sensitivity to inebriation :P
Post a Comment
<< Home