Searching for My Yorkshire Roots 2017 & 2018

I’d been thinking about going to the Rushbearing Festival in Littleborough. Sarah and I had seen in advertised on our trip to Hollingworth Lake but the weather was so iffy that I decided to go back to the Birchcliffe centre and do some more family research. That place is so hot inside it’s hard to concentrate. It was very busy. Another family from the U.S were there researching their connection to the Fawcett family. I didn’t really further my knowledge but it was good to spend time making notes about what I’ve found out about the Wrigley family business so far. On my way back to th’ mill I was able to take several photos of buildings in the town I now knew had been built or renovated by my Wrigley ancestors.

The Hope Chapel ladies had already finished their cleaning session but they offered me tea and an opportunity to go into the gallery which had been closed last week when I was given a tour of the remodeling. It’s very much a work in progress, but despite this they are going to hold the reopening service tomorrow – though there are still no carpets.

Tucking into round two of my ham salad from Todmorden market I decided on the spur of the moment to go back up to Heptonstall and say hello to my great, great, great granddad James again. Already Nature had been at work and I had to sweep away the fallen leaves and twigs that she had deposited during the recent thunder storm. I was deep in thought, and leaves, when a lady asked me if I knew where Sylvia Plath’s grave is. Oooo. People are beginning to mistake me for a local. We chatted for a while about why we were both spending our Saturday afternoon in a cemetery, and then Jose went in search of Sylvia and I went in search of more ancestral houses in the village. From Ancestry.com I had learned that one of my ancestors lived in Stag Lane and I eventually I located Stag cottage, hidden away. (My journal reads ‘very old.’ It is, in fact, the oldest inhabited building in the village dating from the 1500’s. It’s also available for rent on airB&B).

There was a woman cutting stone outside what had once been the Black Bull pub, another ancestry dwelling. She knew that t had once been a pub but didn’t know it’d former name. She didn’t even know whether it was a listed building or not – which seemed mighty strange to me. She invited me to have a look inside and her nephew, who was working with her, showed me round. It’s fantastic – all exposed beams and the rear windows look directly onto the old and new churches of St. Thomas. Amazing!

Taking my leave I saw Jose across the street. “I’m just going to get a drink,” I told her. “Want to join me?” “Yes!” It’s as simple as that here. Into the White Lion we went and Justin, yes, I now know the bartender by name, served us. I found out that Jose lives in Ashton under Lyne and is a retired English literature teacher at the open university. She’s been retired 17 years and by the time she left work she hated her job. It took her several years of retirement before she could pick up and read a book again. She dropped me off at the bottom of Heptonstall Road and as I got back to th’ mill I waved to Ken who was sunbathing on his canal boat.

I cooked veggies for the first time on this trip and FaceTimed Sarah, the first time since she went back to Santa Cruz. She’s in the midst of rehearsals for Beauty in and Beast at Cabrillo Stage.
Sunday July 22^nd

Intrigued by Ken’s unusual lifestyle I Googled him and the first thing that came up was a photo of me, Segi and Ken at the Thai restaurant that I’d taken and sent to him on Twitter.

I caught the train to Littleborough but was very disappointed with the Rushbearing parade. It took less than 3 minutes to pass me. Of more interest were the signs advertising various cuts of lame, leg, half, whole. The signs were in fields full of sheep. I walked up to the Olive and Pickle for tea and a scone. ‘I could get used to this lifestyle,’ I wrote in my journal as I looked out from my table onto Hollingworth Lake, ‘but I don’t give myself any down time.’ (Interestingly enough I later found out that one of my ancestors lived on Lake Road, Hollingworth – the very street on which I was having these profound thoughts!).

I headed back to Littleborough town square and right on the dot of 1 p.m. I heard a band. Ah, right on time, I said to myself. Then, after just one piece the band members all picked up their chairs and left. I’d just arrived for the last piece! So it goes. A variety of dancers next took centre stage, some with blackened faces, some wearing clogs, some with colourful gypsy-like costumes. Each dance troupe had it’s own live music – accordians, fiddles, pipes – all very jolly but the festivities were totally confined to the square. Even the pubs on the square didn’t have tables outside and there was no-one standing around drinking. This was so different from Oxenhope and Hebden Bridge festivals where the entire town shows up and all the pubs and shops join in the festive spirit.

After enjoying myself by taking lots of photos I strolled over to the church where a few stalls were selling books, but it all seemed rather sad. There were hardly any customers. I left around 3 p.m. stopping in at the Littleborough history centre in the old station as I waited for the train back to Hebden. I took a catnap, intending to go out for a walk later, but by the time I woke up it was pouring down, so I stayed in and worked on my Ancestry.com research.
Monday July 23^rd

This was the first day I had woken up without a pretty good idea of what I was going to do for the next 12 hours. I’d looked up a pile of What’s On ideas online but Monday seemed to be a slow day of happenings. By noon, though, I’d had enough of mooching around – though I did get my laundry done – so I went into Halifax with no particular plan, except to have lunch there. I decided to call in and check out the square Chapel since they were advertising food there. I’d tried to get into the building a couple of times before but there was too much construction going on. It’s next to the Piece Hall and a copper building, housing a small theatre and a café, has been constructed to join the two buildings together. It was lovely. The old brick façade of the church forms one wall and the ceiling is geometric and colourful. It’s light and spacious and has been open for just one month. It serves unusual food and every dish can be ordered in small, medium or large portions. What a radical idea. I tried the Malayan chicken with lime sauce and a glass of rose petal beer. Delicious. (This building was destined to become one of my favourite hang outs in Halifax.)

Stopping to get some help at the information desk in the library I set off in search of the former Farrar Academy where my great, great grandma had worked as a servant in 1861. The actual building wasn’t easy to find but I eventually found a health centre that is located in a quite majestic old building. This looked promising. Outside an adjacent church, now a Muslim community centre, three guys were chatting in the car park. I approached them showing them the map that David Glover had sent me, hoping that they could help me interpret the lie of the land. “Yes,” they said, You’ve got the right place. Look, a carved stone sign over the entrance of the health centre says School House.” One of the men had been doing his own research into the history of the church. School House is literally the next building to the mansion that was Crossley’s home, owner of the largest carpet factory in the world, Dean Clough. The man directed me across the street to see the historical Lister Lane cemetery and advised me to take a look at the Almshouses that Crossley built.

Back in town I just managed to get into the charity stores before they closed, getting a bag and a skirt for Anna. Relaxing in the Square Chapel I sat on the deck outside, overlooking Black Ledge Lane where my Gledhill ancestors had once lived.

I chatted with the barista for a while. He’s a student whose main ambition is to visit San Francisco. Then I went to buy some index cards. Now that I’ve moved to a place where I can easily go and visit houses that people in my family tree actually lived in, and churches where they were baptized, married and buried I find the lack of ‘search my location’ in Ancestry, basically, ‘a right pain in the proverbial . . .’ So my goal is to keep index cards so that I can reference these places easily. Yes, I know I could do it on a spread sheet but I prefer the mobility of tangible objects. (It’s March now and I haven’t completed more than a handful of cards!)

I had dinner in the Percy Shaw and back at th’mill I watched two interesting TV programmes – one about the possible secret chamber in King Tut’s tomb (maybe Nefertiti) and one as a tribute to Princess Diana on the 20^th anniversary of her death. This was the first time her sons have spoken publically about their mother’s death.

The plan was to go to Sowerby Bridge church for their morning coffee time. I took the train directly to the town. Angela, a distance relative of mine was there, and Ken, of course. I left at 11:30 just as the vicar, Angela Dicks, was arriving. She’s been the minister there since 2000 and she remembered me from my visit last year.

On a whim I decided to catch the bus up to Sowerby, high above Sowerby Bridge, look around the historic village, walk back into town and have lunch . The views from the hilltop village are amazing and the quiet is palpable. I called Jean who lives in Sowerby to see if she could recommend a path back to the bottom of the valley without retracing the route the bus had taken. I got a bag of chips from the village chippy to give me energy to walk down the very steep hillside.

I’d set my heart on going to the Hog’s Head brewery by the canal for lunch but it was closed so I tried out the local Wetherspoons , the Commercial, for the first time. I sat outside and got into conversation with two guys, one of whom told me that his daughter is getting married in 4 months’ time and he’s ‘dreading it.’ “Why do we have to go through this rigmarole? Animals don’t have a special ceremony!” You get the gist. I enjoyed my stick toffee pudding and custard watching the activity on the main street. Sowerby Bridge always looks a bit run down to me. Despite the flood of new restaurants that have sprung up in the town recently shop doorway are still strewn with litter and rubbish is piled high in empty lots. I even learned a new term: ‘fly tipping,’ which basically means dumping your rubbish in empty spots. The town has a very different vibe from Hebden Bridge. Ken at the church believes that the numerous barber’s shops on the main street are just fronts for drug dealers. The Roxy nigh club closes its doors at 2:30 a.m. and there’s a stream of taxis waiting outside at that time to take people home.

It took me two hours to walk back to Hebden along the canal, a new adventure for me.

When I checked my phone I found out that I’d walked 91/2 miles today. Whoops. Wednesdays are my ‘walking’ day, not Tuesdays.

I took a catnap, then had a nice relaxing bath and moved my stuff into Nicola’s spare room (my room is being occupied by AirB&B guests tonight) before heading out to have dinner in Old Gate – chicken with naan and mago chutney. Then I headed out to the edge of town, to St James’s church for a lecture presentation entitled Two Weeks in North Korea. It turned out to be one of the best talks I’ve ever been to, not only in its subject matter but alsp in the manner of presentation. Chris’s demenour was that of a most irreverent reverend. She lied about being an American and about being a minister to the North Koreas. She originally came from San Bernardino, California but now lives and works in Peterborough. She told us that getting back to Beijing was a relief. She tought she was inhad reached ‘The West.’ It was just the same feeling that I got when I managed to get back into Hungary from a very hair-raising time in Roumania. There were about 35 people, and maybe 2 under the age of 50. Of course, tea, cake and biscuits were served at the intermission. It finished at 9:30 and on my way home I bumped into the man who’d told me so much about River Street. We made a date to meet again at Quiz night at the Fox and Goose and he’d give me a booklet he had about Bridge End. 11.7 miles
Wednesday

It was pouring down when I met Gary for our weekly hike. It just wasn’t possible to be outdoors for any lenth of time in such weather , choices, choices. We plumped for Leeds since I hadn’t been there in 40 years, when I visited both Judith and Julian at Leeds Uni. It was so easy to get there – just hop on the next train and we were there in 45 minutes. Gary was a great guide and we visited the Town Hall, the Corn Exchange and I even got to play the piano in the Marketplace. I love the new architecture with the shopping areas enclosed under roves of stained glass. We had coffee in the Wethersppons dedicated to Cuthbert Brodrick who was the architect of Leeds twon Hall. I could easily mistake this building for Bolton Town Hall. But it was built just before the Bolton one. WE had lunch in the 300 year old Whitelock’s Ale House. Poet John Betjeman enjoyed the atmosphere of Whitelock’s, describing it as “the Leeds equivalent of Fleet Street’s Old Cheshire Cheese and far less self-conscious, and does a roaring trade. It is the very heart of Leeds.” I h enjoyed my plouman’s lunch. We were too early for the train home to use our off peak return tickets so we sat and people watched at gary’s suggestion for 45. It would have only cost £to top up! Back in Halifax we popped into the Square Chapel for soup and an drink. Most of the tables were in use but when the movie began the place emptied. This is fast becoming one of my favourit spots in Halifa. I was now in the ‘spare’ room so I felt I a little discombobulated, especially since I had to prepare for my upcoming trip to the Shetland isles. I almost took a wrong turn when I came back from the bathroom during the night and would have got into bed with Nicola except for a loud meow from Lola!

Thursday

Very heavy rain again didn’t deter my plans to have a day in Rochdale. This was partly a day of reminiscence, and partly a day of new searching. My mum often went to rochdale, to the Champnes shall where there were lunchtime concerts. Then she and my dad would catch a bus to Hollingworth Lake and walk back to Littleborough. One year when the family went over to visit she wanted to take us with her. At the time it was difficult trying to make the kids sit quietly through the concert, though they enjoyed the Lake visit. I guess I didn’t understand my mum’s need to have us experience what she did in her normal life. I get it now, preparing fro my daown daughters’ visit, and wanting them to do and see what I do and see on a regular day. Of course, they have their own agenda, which Rachel is in the process of organizing as I write.

Heading into the town centre one of the first buildings I came across was . . . the Champness hall. I went inside. Quite spooky, and in a terrible sate of repair. I couThe main concert room was closed but I could see through the stained glass that there’s still a piano there. . The off to Toad Lane, one of the eaoldest exisiting parts of town from where some of my ancestors emigrated in 1810. There I sat in The Baum which was voted best pub in a camra guide. Then off to St Chad’s church where I was given a tour of the church by the man who I’d emailed some questions to. What a coincidence. Gracie Fields is buried here.
Friday

Heptonstall coffee – Maggie – cross – gin (no idea!)

Saturday

I thought I’d have a quiet morning in, but no. I took the library books back and took out one about Shetland for my upcoming trip, a recording of ted Hughes reading his own poems and Simon Armitage’s Standing Stones. I had coffee in Innovation mill for the first time and met Gary at the station at 4 p.m. . I was surprised at his outfit. We’d only ever met on hikes before and for some strange reason I thought he’d turn up in the same outfit, but no, smart pants, short sleeved shirt and shiny shoes. Good job I had a dress on. Well, it was a Saturday night and we were off to see Diva, at Gary’s suggestion. I think I must have seen this before ewhen it first came out since certain scenes seemed familiar. After the movie we’d planned to go for a drink in the Albert Hotel since one of my Wrigley ancestors built it in 1868. The place was buzzing. There was a mixture of ages in the clientel, many were quite dressed up, but suddenly, a few minutes after 8 p.m. everyone left and we were the only table remaining. We ordered food, but they stopped serving at 8 so we advanced to Stubbings Wharf where we managed to get my favourite table , underneath the clock. Oh my. I’d had three glasses of wine, in one day – ok, over a course of 5 hours.

Today I misread the bus timetable for the first time. I’d forgotten that buses to Haworth don’t beginning til noon on Sundays, so I went back to t’th mill and did my packing for my trip North. Then set off, again, for Haworth. It was Emily Bronte’s 199^th birthday celebration which the Parsonage was commemorating by a guided hike up Penistone Hill, a route that would have been very familiar to all the members of the Bronte family. The information on the website was that ‘space is limited’ but there was no way to book in advance which was rather worrying. “Have you already registered?” I was asked when I arrived at the parsonage. “No. There’s no way of registering online,” I replied. “Ah, well. We’ve got a lot of people on our list but I think I’ll be able to fit you in.” Oh dear. The British need help. Having been assigned to #19 spot on the list (really? Is that classes as a lot?) I went off into the village in search of some lunch. I sat outside the teashop with a sandwich and was soon joined by a couple and their two well-behaved canines.. The man was eager to chat. The woman remained silent, but he made jokes about it, and she laughed, so I guess that was OK. It was pleasant to have company for lunch before heading to meet up with the walkers. There was one other American on the walk, several Europeans and many Japanese. I chatted to the American, a lady of my age, also traveling alone.. The views across the moorland were stunning. I feel very much at home in this landscape, an this area in particular. Also on the hike was a family from Bolton, just off Chorley New Road, and also a man who Sarah and I had shared a table with at Branwell bronte’s 200^th birthday luncheon. We chatted about accents. He asked what I thought his was. “Public school?’ I suggested. “Yes, got it in one’ I’m sure Sarah will remember him from Thornton.

After the hike, which just last a couple of hours I returned to the outdoor café on the steep cobbled street and I saw the American again just passing. “Come to join me for me?’ I called, and we spent a lovely hour chatting. She’s been married for 8 years, a first marriage for both of the so she’s been used to taking trips alone all her life, and they discussed h er desire to continue to do so after she married. She understand that she needs her alone time. She teacher 11^th and 12th grade English and AP English just outside Washngton DC. Last year she came to Yorkshire for the first time, and, in her own words, ‘just couldn’t stop thinking about it.’ – every single day.’ So she’s back but doing the usual tourist trail of Cambridge, London and the Cotswolds but she wanted a week in Yorkshire too. She wants to move here but her hubby is younger than her and no ready to retire. She had even sent an email to the Bronte Parsonage before she arrived in England offering to be a volunteer in the museum over the summer but she never even received a response. Typical!

I got back home around 6 p.m. and finished packing. I found a new (to me, at least) series to watch on TV: in the Dark, written by mark Billingsley who often is a consultant on true detective series.

7:20 p.m. Station hotel, Aberdeen cocktail bar.

So what’s been happening to my journal? I didn’t write anything on Friday or Sunday so far and just a few notes from Thursday and Saturday. Well, I’ve been on the go for the past 7? Weeks and managed to keep it going so far. Have I stopped writing because it’s now beginning to feel as if I live here, rather than being on vacation. I mean, I only write vacation journals when I’m on a vacation – right? Perhaps it was being on the train to Scotland today that I first sat still for 7 ½ hour and so I had time to put my thoughts together. ThThe end result of this ‘thinking time’ was me sending an email to my financial planner, Ken, to say I’m seriously contemplating moving to /England so please tll me how I stand financially. Around me what do I see? There are only to other people in athe bar, two men discussing the extortionate price of fruit and veg. Marks and Sparks v. Morrisons. There’s absolutely no-one in the restaurant. What was remarkable about my journey today is that to get from my accommodation in Hebden Bridge to my accommodation in Aberdeen I had only 3 minutes walk. The Station hotel in Aberdeen is literally less than one minute’s walk from the station – duh! I had to change trains in York. The second train was totally full and there was nowhere to put my rolly bag so it was rather cramped. The train line hugs the coast for much of the journey. Last year I’d take the same route but got off in Edinburgh. There were wonderful clouds and outbreaks of sunshine all the way, with just a few scattered sprinkles. I arrived in Aberdeen at 5 p.m. washed my face, picked up my phone and ten minutes later I was on the street, going to explore my new ‘home.’

I’m pretty sure I’ve never been to Aberdeen before. I found the information bureau and the lady suggested I went to Footdee, an old fishing village. Here I found myself in dockland. For the first time I felt a little uneasy, with no-one around, not a tourist in sight, just huge container ships being loaded by enormous cranes. I passed the ship that I think is the one I’ll be coming back from Kirkwall on. Footdee is the old part of the city with just a few streets of old stone buildings leading to the original harbor. I found myself wandering towards the esplanade with its Beach Boardwalk. A few large container ships were docked in a line our at sea and the docks stretched the full length of the bay. I ended u walking for 2 hours, 5 miles and spoke to no-one. (Isn’t this last comment so telling) Back in the hotel I braved the deserted restaurant and had a lonely prawn salad. All the staff were Eastern European which I later deduced was Polish.

It was an old hotel, ful of dark wood, probably built for commercial travelers when the railway in in its heyday. The empty restaurant reminded me of a similar experience at Ceiladh in Stornoway. Probably quite grand at one time it now feels rather sad. I asked at reception if there was anything about the history of the building but I was met with balnk looks.

Tuesday

I headed out at 10 a.m. leaving my bag in reception so that I could pick it up later.

My first attempt to walk into Old Aberdeen had me heading completely in the wrong direction, but at last I found Union Street, bedecked with bunting for the summer festivals int eh city. No wonder this place is called the granite city. It’s very grey but in quite a different way from Edinburgh. Once on the correct road I realized that it was going to be over an hour’s walk to Old Aberdeen so I jumped on a bus and followed the route on mu iPhone, eventually getting off at the correct place! 2.60. Now, that was an expensive ride!