Searching for My Yorkshire Roots 2017 & 2018

30^th

I set the alarm for 6:30 a.m. OMG It felt like the middle of the night. Sarah managed to do a fantastic magic trick, somehow cramming all the stuff she has collected on the trip into her suitcase. She was worried that it might be over the weight limit but fortunately it wasn’t. We left the sleeping hotel at 7 a.m, filled up the car with petrol. It was very gloomy and sprinkling with rain as we set off on our 30 minute drive to the airport. We arrived at the car rental ‘village’ and took the bus to the terminal. It was the first time that we’d been in a queue where no-one was talking to each other, everyone was intent on going about their own business – us included. Check in was easy and there was absolutely no line so we got tea and teacakes to while away the time before it was time for Sarah to board. Saying bye bye was difficult. For me I’m facing 9 weeks alone and I know that Sarah has strong feelings that she’d like to stay here, rather than come for visits. With tears in my eyes I waved goodbye as she walked out of sight and I steered my course towards the station for a train to Piccadilly, then a little zippy bus through the centre of Manchester, and then the train to Hebden Bridge. I stopped for a moment to visit the memorial to the victims of the Manchester arena bombing in May.

My new ‘home,’ Mayroyd Mill is very convenient for the station. I ate my sandwiches from M&S and then settled into my new place. Though the rooms are airy and spacious there’s not much storage space – and only 5 hangars on the rack in the bedroom. It’s not surprising since most people come for just a weekend trip, not 9 weeks! I did a quick run to the Coop for supplies but back at the ranch I found I couldn’t settle to write my blog so I ventured out with nowhere particular in mind, and found myself crossing the river just by Mayroyd Mill to try and get a view across the river of the mill. I was thwarted in this attempt by all the trees, but the path looked interesting and I trusted that it would ‘bring me out’ at some point. It did. At a derelict mill in Mytholmroyd. I think it’s the same mill where the paintings of the parrots were on the filled in windows last year. Returning along the canal I made my pasta and prawn dinner and watched Hettie Wainthrop, Keeping Up appearances and Waiting for God and part of Paul Hollywood’s Who Do You Think You Are? His father had been a long distance postman in Scotland. Bed at 9:30.
Saturday, July 1^st

I’m sitting in the Black bull in Haworth drinking half a Wainwright’s and writing ‘in situ’ for the first time on this trip. I appear to be in the middle of a music set up that starts at 8. Apart from a guy propping up the bar and a couple of outside tables in use I’m the only one here. I find empty pubs quite depressing.

I had a good night’s sleep in my new home, aware of the goods trains sounding their Major 6ths as they hurtles through Hebden Bridge station. I had to get Nicola to show me how the shower worked and it was 11.15 before I left the house for the Heptonstall festival: one of my latest starts of the day. Nicola waved saying “Well, you’re up bright and early!” She begins a new job on Monday requiring 6 a.m. starts. Two days a week in Liverpool, 2 days in Manchester and Friday at home.

There was low cloud when I set off on the bus for Heptonstall but the forecast was good unlike last year at the festival when it poured down all day and I got so cold my fingers couldn’t operate the camera on my phone.

Simultaneous events took place in Weavers’ Square, the Church, the “ruins” but this year I was a little disappointed with the acts. Perhaps I’d set my expectation too high with the thrill I experienced last year, it being the first time I’d been to the event. However, the food I had was excellent – curry and rice from the Dosa. When I ordered a pint from the pop-up bar the barman asked, “So how’s the family research going?” I looked at him again and realized that it was none other than Justin from the White Lion who I’d given my business card to on the off chance that someone from Lily Hall might come into the pub and so he could pass my contact info on to them. At one point in the afternoon I was on my knees copying down inscriptions from grave stones of Gledhills and Pickles when my ears discerned a familiar Scottish brogue. It was David, current resident of Lily Hall. I said hello and then went to the museum to say my hellos to Richard and the man who ran the flea circus last year. Richard was a past resident of Lily Hall! I found references to a Captain Farrar on an panel about Heptonstall’s role in the Civil War. I have Farrars in my ancestry but it’s a very common name in Heptonstall. Because of the festival buses were not running through the village so I’d got off at Slack Bottom and walked back into the village. Despite my return ticket I now elected to walk back down the steep hill back into Hebden bridge, passing the imposing frontage of Lily Hall on my right.

After 45 minutes at ‘home’ where my living room was now very warm as the afternoon sunshine came directly in (note to self: close window blinds before I go out if the temperature is expected to reach 65 degrees or more) and then I was out again to catch the 5 o’clock bus to Haworth for one of my most anticipated events on my trip – a poetry reading in the old school (where Charlotte taught) by several poets including Simon Armitage. I’d attended the same event last summer, the same weekend in the same venue and it had been billed as Haworth’s first annual poetry weekend. Was it only last Saturday that Sarah and I were in the village for the vintage 1960’s festival? I took a stroll around the village, then stopped at the Black bull (Branwell’s local) to pass the time writing my journal before the event begins at 7. I went to the school early and got a seat on the second row and within minutes Simon Armitage entered the room and sat in the seat directly in front of me! The poets were all outstanding in their field but of course my focus was on Armitage. I had known in advance that there would be no buses back to Hebden after the event and so I asked the lady from the Parsonage who I’d chatted with at Branwell’s birthday if she knew anyone in the audience who might be driving into Hebden. “I am,” came the reply “but we’re taking the poets out for a drink first. Would you like to join us?” And I did just that. Unfortunately Armitage didn’t join us, but I had a lovely couple of hours with great conversation before we took off back across the moors to Hebden. I realized that I hadn’t been ont tops at night and we were lucky to have a star studied sky above us.

Back in Hebden bridge I was just in time to see a performance by the famous saxophone band that I had seen and admired last year. An MC sat in a tent, beer bottle at the ready for those moments when his mouth dried up. I said Hi to Mr Photographer man and found myself sitting on the ground in front of the MC’s little haven of quiet: a perfect vantage point to observe the interaction of the performers with the little kiddies playing peekaboo around the fustian knife sculpture that forms the centerpiece of Fustianopolis as Hebden Bridge was once known.

It’s 5:45, rush hour in Hebden Bridge and I’m sitting at an outdoor table at The Railway, in my bid to follow Sarah’s suggestion that I visit all the pubs in the town. It would give me a reason and a focus. Smoke wafts my way on the late afternoon breeze as the traffic rushes past four feet from my feet! The geese on the wharf give a friendly honk from time to time and the clouds above really appear to be made from cotton wool. It’s not a place I’ll choose to return to but I’d passed it many times and it looked sociable. The outdoor tables were always packed to capacity in late afternoon sunshine. I shared a table with a friendly lass who works at the corner bakery in town.

I’m feeling pleased with myself since I’ve just managed to procure a temporary library ticket. I’d visited earlier in the day and browsed through a couple of boxes of archive material in my search for anything connected with Lily Hall and now added Thorn Bank where Sarah and I had stayed, and Mayroyd Mill where I was currently staying to my list of interests. I hadn’t had much luck but I did come across ‘Music Making in the West Riding of Yorkshire’ and a talking book of Simon Armitage’s ‘Walking Home’ narrated by the wandering troubadour himself. Earlier in the day I’d fiddles and fumbled with the sound system in my room eventually sitting back to the comforting strains of Mike Oldfield’s ‘Elements’ which was on the shelf. Now I’d be able to go to sleep to the dulcet, droll tones of Simon recounting his journey along the Pennine Way. I spent time in’t mill looking up the places where the Wrigleys in my family had lived. It’s so uncanny. Two of the roads Sarah and I had passed every day: New road (where nice poppy necklaces at gina B’s had caught sarah’s eye) and the lovely three storey buildings overlooking the canal that I take photos of every time I come to Hebden Bridge. (It’s so interesting typing this up in February 2018, that I didn’t know the name of that building, or the name of New Road for that matter.)
Tuesday July 4^th

Raining hard. My journal begins ‘lady with dog, squirrel and hedgehog’ but I’ve no idea what that means! I got the bus to King Cross in order to go to the coffee morning at the church on Queen’s Road. There was a sign Open for Coffee, the door was open but inside the church appeared to be deserted. I walked around for a couple of minutes and was just about to leave – I always find empty churches a bit creepy – when someone came in and directed me to the Parish hall where the coffee was actually being served. Rev. Ken apologized for not responding to my email. A lady who’d been there when I’d been to the church with Sarah recognized me from my accent. I was made to feel very welcome and soon got into conversation with Mary whose father remembered the slums on Gaol Lane in the 1930’s. Presumable this is where my Gledhill ancestors lived. The church archives are in Wakefield and are currently closed to visitors. As I walked back into Halifax I passed the barriers around the Square Chapel and Piece Hall as they prepare for the grand re-opening on August 1^st. Then I went for a delicious pancake with lemon and sugar in the Borough Market, a little café that Gary had mentioned to me.

I came home for tea and on the spur of the moment I thought I’d check out the performance of Twelfth Night outside the Town hall in Hebden. There were only a few people in attendance but the numbers were almost doubled by the presence of the local Scout Troop. There were 5 actors who all doubled as musicians. It was very fast paced and quite wonderful to watch.

It was pouring down as I set off to meet Gary at noon at Halifax station. Although I hadn’t seen him for a year we picked up mid sentence, and after stopping to collect sandwiches from Greggs we got the zippy bus up to Norland. As usual, at Gary’s request the rain stayed away for our hike. This was new territory for me. We hiked from the school to Ladstock rock with its myriad name carvings executed over the centuries. Gary’s grandma had done one when she was at an orphans’ summer school close by. In Norland cemetery I found gravestones of several Gledhills. It’s a very common name in the Calder valley, unfortunately. We passed a couple of beautiful old halls with great views across sheep strewn fields into Halifax. We made our way down into Copley, and refreshed ourselves in The Volunteer. My back was aching by that time. We’d been walking for 5 hours without a break. Feeling quite refreshed we continued our journey, walking into Sowerby Bridge along the canal where we had a well earned dinner in the Hog’s Head Brewery down by the wharf. We did the quiz in the pub paper and I caught the 8 o’clock train back to Hebden, Gary electing to walk home to King Cross. Total mileage: 10.9 miles.

I had an appointment to see Lily Hall – this time from the inside! Ann greeted me on the bench outside the front door, with a glass of prosecco in hand. We chatted for a while with the most amazing view in front of us. It really can’t get better than that. The David joined us, returning from a walk with doggies Lily and Fin and then I was given a tour of the house, with its splendid views across the valley. I had a late dinner with Nicola who is going away this weekend, so I’ll be on my own – io all weekend.

I had breakfast on my deck for the first time – and dressed in a skirt! I had been in contact with the Hebden Bridge Historical society and my contact there, Diana Monahan, was participating in the Hebden Bridge Open gardens day. She and her husband, the former mayor of Hebden live in the row of weavers’ cottage overlooking the canal, that I’ve always admired. I now know they are called Macpelah. There’s a small terraced garden overlooking the canal. A lovely spot. She knew of the Wrigleys immediately and she was eager to both tell me and email me the information that she has about that family. As I walked back along the canal I stopped for a while to watch a duck and her four fluffy yellow ducklings. Over the next few weeks I would see this family, each time with one less duckling. Not many babies survive – survival of the fittest, I guess.

Hope chapel, next to my apartment, was open. Since the Wrigleys did some renovation work here I was eager to go in. The church is celebrating the 200^th anniversary of the Rev Fawcett, and is having major reconstruction done. Over a welcoming cup of tea I was allowed to take a peak into the sanctuary clad in scaffolding. It seems difficult to imagine that they are going to have a service here is a week’s time.

I went for a cheese toastie at Square One and then headed back to Hope chapel. Well, the Victoria sponge had looked so tempting! I went back to my place and watched a little Wimbledon before heading out to try and find Wrigley houses on King Street and York Street. I couldn’t locate either because the numberings have changed since the Wrigley days. Back home to watch Andy Murray’s win.

This morning I booked my trip to Orkney and the Shetlands and now it’s 2:15 and I’m sitting upstairs in Wainsgate Chapel drinking tea and eating delicious Victoria sponge, with fresh cream and strawberries. A table of unbelievable cakes stands next to the display from the Pig and Barrel in Hebden – a gin place (though I’ve still never come across it – Feb, 2018). There are stall selling quilts, felted purses, flat caps and lovely black and white prints of Stoodley Pike. I’ve seen concerts advertise in the chapel and read that it’s a place that’s trying to gain recognition as a concert venue so I thought it would be worth a trip to take a look during their Summer fair. I’d never been to Old Town before, perched on a shelf high above Hebden. The bus driver hadn’t heard of the chapel but one of the passengers was going to the fair too, so I knew when to get off. She told me that she keeps bees and there was going to be a small display about bee keeping. Ah, that accounts for some of the strange garb worn by browsers of the photographs. There’s almost as many dogs as people in here. A stained glass window matches the brightly coloured wooden tables adorned with crocheted Victorian table cloths. Many many, and women too, as highly tattooed. It’s all quite hipster. There feels to me to be something rather sad about the event. The only people attending appear to be friends and family of the artists. I haven’t seen anyone buy anything other than a tea cake and a huge chocolate cake that I posted a picture of on Facebook, and has yet to be sliced. The bus came through the modern estate of Dodd Naze. There’s an exhibition in the sanctuary too, called Vessels. It’s a collection of origami birds – very beautiful. But the fabric of the church itself is in very poor condition. Huge chunks of paint have flaked off the walls.

Rather than catch the bus back I went off to explore Old Town. I could just make out the sound of leather on willow and arrived to see the last ball of a cricket match at Old Town cricket club, just like in Warley town with Rachel two years ago. There are some wonderful old buildings and halls spread around a central green. I know nothing about the history of this place but perhaps it was once like Heptonstall. The Mitchell Brothers Mill dominates the town and so presumably many of the cottages were built to house the workers. It derelict now – quite spooky – and full of CCTV cameras and surrounded by razor wire. Very evocative of a desert ghost town.

Catching the bus back I had a lively conversation with the bus driver. I was the only one on the bus. I’d got an appointment to meet with Gerard, who is the person to speak to about anything at Hope chapel, though I’m not sure what his job title is. He was very interested in the Wrigley letter-headed bills dated 1862, 1867 and 1913 send by my Wrigley ancestors to the chapel for their renovation work. I obtained these letters from New Zealand! - from a Wrigley I’d corresponded with on Ancestry.com, and it turned out that she’d got them from none other than Diana Monahan. How amazing is that! “You should meet Jea, an old timer who knows all there is to know about old Hebden,” I was told. “She’s 92 but still comes into town most days.” I took my leave, pondering all these links and coincidences. (As I write this up I now know that Old Town Mill was originally owned jointly between the Mitchell brothers and John Cousin, and John Cousins had owned Lily Hall, which he rented out to tenants. Just as I got outside Gerard called to me, “Here’s Jean,” s I sat back down and prepared myself for yet another cup of tea. When I mentioned the name Wrigley to Jean she immediately replies, ‘Oh, a Wrigley did my roof. I live at Slack Bottom.’ She even remembered that Keith Wrigley was a big man who had been a prisoner of war in Burma and had contracted malaria there and was ill intermittently for the rest of his life.

It was now after 3 and I still hadn’t had lunch so picked up a sausage roll and a huge ham and salad sandwich from the Country Store. It was very hot in my room as I watched a little tennis, did the washing up, finished the laudry and finally managed to open the skylight in my bedroom.

For the evening’s entertainment I caught the bus up to Heptonstall. I was going to see the Hepton Singers’ summer concert at St Thomas’s.I had half an hour to kill in the village first so I went into the White Lion and bought my first glass of wine on the trip. Anna FaceTimed me there. She’s off to another wedding today. In the church there was a good turn out of people. There’s about 35 members of the choir and they tour internationally. It was a concert of folk songs, some arranged by the choir director, and the singing was remarkably good. At the intermission almost everyone queued for tea and homemade cake which took an inordinately long time. It was £6 for a concession ticket which included the food. The concert finished at 9 so I had about45 minutes to wait for the bus. It was windy and chilly ont’tops of course so I stood in the church porch asking everyone for a lift. The second couple I asked obliged. They were Barry and Helen from Todmorden and as we chatted they remarked that I must be very brave to do this trip alone. As we walked down to their car parked at the playground there were beautiful colours in the sky above Stoodley Pike. A man and his boxer dog were standing – yes, the dog stood too – watching the sunset. They dropped me off at the station around 9:30 and I went home to have a late supper after a very busy day.

I’m having coffee in Coffee Cali in Halifax again, the place that Sarah and I liked but it always seemed to be populated by people either crying or not speaking to each other. I’d used the morning to clean and tidy up my rooms since Nicola would be coming home this evening. Lola, the kitty, seemed to have recovered ok after throwing up on Friday evening in Nicola’s bedroom, where she usually snuggles. Lola’s only come upstairs to see me twice and one of those times was on the first day that I moved in.

I was totally stoked when I left and didn’t feel like hunkering down at th’mill for the rest of the evening. I called Gary thinking he might like to go out for a drink in town but there was no reply so I got the bus back to Hebden Bridge. At the bus stop to listened to the video to see that it had come out OK. The man in front of me turned round and said, “I just heard a performance of that piece at Halifax Minster.” “Oh, were you singing in the choir?” “No, I led the service!” My response, “Oh, I didn’t recognize you without your robe on,” could have been misconstrued in America.