England – Page 22 – From Pyrenees to Pennines

Our day out with John Rylands

Before we came back to France at the weekend, I wanted a day in Manchester, where I was at University more than 40 years ago. It was a city people at that time seemed to love or hate. I loved it then, and I still do. It’s buzzy and busy, with galleries, music, shops, and a bravura display of civic Victorian architecture down every city centre street.

BoltonNov2012 047 — Outside John Rylands library

I had a particular memory I wanted to share with Malcolm. The John Rylands Library. I used to go there to write an essay or prepare for a seminar on those days when I wanted to pretend to some kind of scholarship that in truth was never part of my make-up. The building was a celebration of Victorian Gothic architecture at its finest, with wonderful plaster tracery on the walls, splendid fan-vaulted ceilings, and shelf after shelf of ancient leather-bound books. Seated in some darkened alcove, surrounded by the particular smell of the place – beeswax polish mixed with dusty books, I would work away for an hour or two, convincing myself, if nobody else, that I was getting down to the serious matter of studying in an industrious and creative manner. Few other people would be there: there were no distractions other than the quiet beauty of the building itself. The place was built for scholarship.

BoltonNov2012 015 — The reading room where I pretended to write essays.

It was built in the 1890’s by Enriqueta Rylands in memory of her husband John. Although his origins were humble, he became Manchester’s first multi-millionaire, making his fortune in the textile industry as a cotton manufacturer. At first, the library collection was modest, but over the years, has come to hold works of world-class importance: everything from the earliest known New Testament text, on papyrus, to medieval illustrated manuscripts, a Gutenberg bible, and the personal papers of the likes of Elizabeth Gaskell.

BoltonNov2012 035 — One of dozens of different fantastical creatures forming the roof bosses

I’m not qualified to comment on the early air conditioning systems, or the electricity originally generated on site. I simply enjoy the richly patterned stained glass, the sumptuous woodwork, the dragons encircling ceiling bosses, and the sandstones in which the building is constructed, which range from soft pink to a rich dull red.

BoltonNov2012 021 — An upward glance whilst on a staircase

Back in the ‘60’s, I’d work till I got hungry, thirsty, or both. Last week, we discovered that these days I’d have no excuse to leave, because there’s a modern extension sensitively joined to the side of the building. This houses Café Rylands, where we had our lunch, made from locally sourced produce; a bookshop which, though small, presented us with fascinating choices, from architecture and design books to children’s stories; and an almost irresistible gift-shop. It has an energetic and exciting programme of educational events, and I wished we could have signed up for some of them.

BoltonNov2012 042 — Café Rylands and the book shop

When I was a student in Manchester, the library was little known outside academic circles. Now it’s a different story. John Rylands Library has been made Manchester’s ‘Large Visitor Attraction of the Year’ at the city’s annual tourism awards. You could spend happy hours here, exploring the building itself, the exhibits, and making frequent sorties to the coffee shop for a relaxing break and browse through the papers. And apart from your spending money, it’s all free.

BoltonNov2012 043 — Drop a coin or two into the donation box, and the automaton will go through its paces

The page three ‘Beastie Boys’

The blog I was going to post has been pretty much written for me. Here’s what we found on page 3 of the Bolton News this morning.

‘THE Beast is back — in a show that promises to be a real family affair.

Twins Alex and Ben Clift, aged seven, and mum Elinor, of Hardcastle Gardens, Bradshaw, are all appearing in a stage version of Disney favourite Beauty And The Beast, which begins its run tonight at the Albert Halls

The budding actors even went up against each other for the same role — Chip Potts the teacup — with Alex landing the part.

Ben will be part of the ensemble, gracing the stage in various roles including a villager and Sugar Lump.

Bolton Premier Productions first performed Beauty And The Beast in 2010.

Mrs Clift, aged 33, who is playing Babette the feather duster, said: “It was hard because they both wanted to go for it.

They were both really good and Ben was so nearly there. At first he was very sad.”

But now both boys, who are pupils at St Maxentius Primary School, are excited about their roles in the classic fairytale which tells the story of Belle and an enchanted prince.

Alex, who is the older than Ben by one minute, said: “I can’t wait to say all my lines correctly and be pushed around the stage in a trolley. I was so sad we couldn’t both be Chip — I know that Ben would have been just as good.”

Ben said: “I’m enjoying the dancing and the singing and can’t wait to get up on stage in front of my friends and family.

“I was disappointed I narrowly missed out on being Chip, but I’m really glad they still wanted me to be in the show.”

Both the boys, who are keen footballers and play for Turton Tigers, decided to audition after their mum appeared in the same show in 2010.

Mrs Clift, who runs a voiceover company with husband, Phil, said: “I was in it last time. They both loved coming to rehearsals with me, and they were only five then. This time, when the auditions came up again they were both really keen to get involved.” ‘

Thanks, Bolton News and reporter Melanie Wallwork.

Well, tonight we’re off to see the show – with all four of them: even Phil, Ellie’s husband, has his part to play. He voices the ‘Ealth and Safety announcement at the beginning. No wonder we had to come to England to be part of the audience.

England comes to Laroque d’Olmes

CentredeLoisirsYorkshireLdOSeptember2012 034 — Yorkshire Dales: as interpreted by the children at the Centre de Loisirs, Laroque.

Yesterday afternoon was the best fun. 20 odd-children (that’s ‘about 20 children’, not ‘Twenty Odd Children’) here in Laroque spent the day in England, courtesy of ‘Découverte Terres Lointaines’, without setting foot outside town.

These children spend their Wednesdays, a no-school day, at the Centre de Loisirs. Their parents are probably out at work, and here is somewhere they can spend the day having purposeful fun, without its costing their parents too much.

We turned up with bag full of groceries, and spent half the morning baking biscuits, basic English everyday crunchy biscuits. It was great to see them, girls and boys alike carefully measuring out flour, sugar, butter and so on, stirring, mixing, watching a dough come together from these simple ingredients.

CentredeLoisirsYorkshireLdOSeptember2012 003 — Let the baking begin.

A bag full of cutters and a rolling pin meant that they could transform the mixture into stars and circles, miniature gingerbread-style people, bells and flowers.

Upstairs, another group had been talking about the green moorlands of the Yorkshire Dales, then making a mural of a Daleside landscape, complete with Swaledale sheep, farm gates, and obligatory grey cloud (it’s England after all).

Lunch break. Afterwards, the children came to see our long-prepared exhibition looking at North Yorkshire, which has so many features in common with the Ariège: mountains (OK, the best Yorkshire can manage is Whernside’s 736 metres. Ariège’s Pic d’Estats is 3143m); textile and mining industries past their glory days; wide open spaces home only to sheep…. and so on. They enjoyed an extract from Roald Dahl’s ‘George’s Marvellous Medicine’, and then it was back to the Centre de Loisirs. Where we produced a long skipping rope with the idea of teaching them a couple of English skipping games…

‘I like coffee, I like tea

I’d like, er, Nadine, to jump with me’.

CentredeLoisirsYorkshireLdOSeptember2012 023 — Getting started with skipping.

They loved it. Unfortunately they couldn’t skip at all and tripped and fell all over the place, and all the adults mourned that it was a lost art. As in England (Is that so? Not sure.) children don’t skip any more.

Back into the kitchen, it was time to decorate those biscuits. They tinted their bowls of icing in lurid shades, and made free with all the sugary decorations we provided. ‘Glorious Technicolor’ doesn’t begin to do it justice. Once decorated, they ate the lot, and we sent them off to their parents for the evening crammed full of enough e-numbers to see them through the week. One lad, as he set off home, was heard to say ‘I’ve had a great day’. So had we.

CentredeLoisirsYorkshireLdOSeptember2012 027 — Glorious Technicolor biscuits.

Spitalfields Life: and a recipe from Boundary Estate

Despite the fact I didn’t nominate it as a ‘Lovely Blog’ (perhaps because I feel the Gentle Author is a real professional, not someone who turns out posts only when time permits) Spitalfields Life is definitely a favourite.

Every morning without fail, his daily offering drops into my in-box, usually as I check my mail before breakfast.

And in it will be some tale of life in London’s East End. The story perhaps of a neighbourhood shop, or a resident who arrived some years ago from a different continent, or another whose family has been deep-rooted in the area for endless generations…. anyone and everyone has a story to tell the Gentle Author. The posts I look forward to most are those when he showcases the atmospheric photos taken in the 1960’s by John Claridge, of a way of life I remember well, but now seems so very distant. Or those introducing newly- published work by the witty illustrator Paul Bommer. The Gentle Author will show us 18^th century trade cards, ancient graffiti from the Tower of London, transsexuals from Bethnal Green – anything or anybody who takes his sympathetic yet enquiring fancy.

The other day he and photographer Sarah Ainslie went to the Boundary Women’s Group, and found a group of women of Asian heritage cooking lunch to share. They shared their recipes too, and one in particular took my eye, contributed by Julie Begum.

Sardine curry

‘This is my favourite quick home cooking recipe after a long hard day’s work.

Ingredients –

500 g. sardines

2 tomatoes

1 onion

3 green chillies

1 teaspoon of red chilli powder

½ teaspoon of turmeric powder

1 teaspoon of coriander

1 piece of ginger

8 cloves of garlic

1 dessert spoon of lemon juice

Salt as required.

Method

Cut and clean the fresh sardines (score on both sides) or just open the tins (I prefer the ones in tomato sauce).
Heat oil in a pan.
Add sliced onion, green chilli, ginger, garlic and sauté well.
To this, add red chilli powder, turmeric powder, salt, lemon juice and tomato slices. Sauté well until tomatoes are done and add fish.
Add water as required and until fish are cooked.
Serve with fresh coriander and a slice of lemon with white basmati rice. Yum!’

Julie – I can confirm that it’s ‘yum’ indeed, and easy, and quick…and the kitchen doesn’t stink of sardines for hours afterwards, as can be the case with this otherwise wonderful fish.

‘I remember, I remember the House where I was born….’ *

Fairhaven, Alne — The house where I lived in Alne

I don’t actually. I was only six months old when we moved away from York to Alne, near Easingwold in North Yorkshire. And today I visited Alne again.

I lived there till I was 4, and my earliest memories come from there. I remember our house having a long garden, with an espalier apricot tree growing against an ancient brick wall. I remember my father gardening and growing vegetables towards the bottom of the garden, spending hours doing this hated task because he couldn’t find paid work. My mother had no choice but to be the only breadwinner, and as a female teacher, earned less than her male counterparts. Every weekday, she would cycle the 12 mile journey to York, where she taught, with me strapped firmly behind her.

My very earliest memory of all dates from the time when, aged about 2, I wanted to pick my mother a bunch of flowers from the garden. I chose the best tulips, and carefully snapped them off with about an inch of stem attached. I couldn’t understand my mother’s fury and the hiding that followed from my father. I must eventually have been forgiven though. When I came downstairs on my 4th birthday, there was a home-made swing hanging from the branches of the apple tree. I used to spend hours playing on it, but then, as now, I never learnt to propel myself up and down in a satisfying rhythmic swinging motion.

Back garden, Fairhaven — The back garden today: not so very different from the back garden I remember.

We weren’t at all well off, but this house, like so many others in the village is now only affordable by someone with means. When we found it today, the owners were out, but a painter was tackling the garden gate and invited us to look round the garden. He assured us the owners wouldn’t mind. The old stone-flagged kitchen, where my mother had to skin the rabbits my father used to catch must have been re-vamped, and there’s a modern extension at the back of the house. The fields at the bottom of the garden have been built over.

Some things remain. The Village Hall is still there. I can just remember that about twice a year, a mobile cinema came to the village. I was too young to see the films, but I remember everybody turning to to arrange hard wooden benches in the hall so the villagers could gather round the screen. I remember too the very occasional visit of an ice-cream van. Cornets or ‘sandwiches’, 2 flavours, vanilla or ‘pink’ (Yes, I do mean ‘pink’. ‘Strawberry’ doesn’t cover it at all). There was a wood at the edge of the village, and it’s this wood that to this day illustrates the tales of Hansel and Gretel or Little Red Riding Hood in my imagination. I used to half long for, half be scared witless by the prospect of being irrevocably lost in this forest, which I now realise was little more than a glade of trees.

Alne’s become quite ‘twee’ commuter country I think. Back then it was a fairly isolated community offering housing to farm labourers and other country workers. I’ve just found our old home on Rightmove, because it changed hands some 5 years ago, and there’s not a chance we, or anyone else in our family could afford to think of living there now.

* Thomas Hood

Olympic Fever?

A fortnight ago, our local paper, La Dépêche du Midi had ‘Londres, capitale du monde!’ as its banner headline. The story was, of course, the Olympics. We’re unaccustomed to this particular paper taking much notice of anything that occurs outside south-west France, but ‘les JO’ (Jeux Olympiques) have been big news.

Not as much as in England though. When we arrived in the UK, we were unprepared for Olympic Fever. Red white and blue banners and flags hang from houses. Shops have Olympic-themed window displays, and if you want to buy mugs, some paper napkins, or fancy a new cushion, you’d better want them plastered with the Union Flag.

Thames with St. Paul's — Across the Thames: a view of St. Paul’s Cathedral

Still, we enjoyed staying with Tom and Sarah in Olympic-happy London, and spent an evening round the South Bank area. Eat near Borough Market and you’re sure of a tasty meal cooked with decent ingredients: the convivial and cheery atmosphere comes free. Wander along from there to the Festival Hall, and you’ll be in the company of Olympic visitors from just about every country you can think of, as well as locals, just out to enjoy being alongside the Thames and all that this particular stretch of river offers. Tate Modern and the Globe weren’t open for business at that time of the evening, but there’s still plenty to see. The National Theatre has a slightly zany pop-up bar, the Propstore, furnished with props from popular productions. We were aMAZEd by the book maze we found in the South Bank Centre, constructed from some 250,000 books, most of which we found we wanted to read, if we hadn’t already.

And as part of the Festival of Britain retrospective, there was a retro-funfair with fearsomely-clanking roller-coaster as well as all the rides of a traditional 50’s fair.

As night fell, we simply mooched along the Thames-side nightscape. We felt lucky to be there and lucky to have shared, if not as excited sports spectators, London’s Olympic August.

Thames 6 — Nightfall over the London Eye

“Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
— Samuel Johnson

Bluebell woods

I was ticked off this week by a Laroque friend in an email conversation. I’d been waxing lyrical about the woods here in the UK which are starting to be carpeted in that rich blue which indicates that bluebells are in flower. She pointed out, rightly, that she has a clump in her own garden. I can’t deny it of course. But I’m still delighted to have been in England long enough to catch this very special sight of bluebells flowering in such profusion that the whole woodland floor becomes an almost violet-blue which no camera ever seems able to capture accurately.

cowslips at Ripley — There was room for a few cowslips too

Their presence apparently is a sign of ancient woodland. Adapted to this territory, the young shoots are good at piercing thick leaf mould before the deciduous leaves of the woodland canopy close in late spring. They’re native to Atlantic Europe: apparently somewhere between 25 – 50 % of all common bluebells are found here in the UK. That’s an astonishing statistic for our small island, since the bluebell can be found in so many other parts of Europe, and has been introduced to many parts of the United States as well.

It’s a shame it’s turned rainy and a bit cold. We need the rain, and lots of it. But there’s something very special about a walk in the woods at this time of year, with the mild sunshine penetrating through the newly-leaved branches to reveal the bluebells as they march unhindered as far as the eye can see.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — An image sent to the BBC 'PM' programme last year during bluebell season

A country childhood

We went to Thirsk, our next nearest market town this week, to the cinema. Nothing remarkable about that – to anyone but me.

I last went to the Ritz almost exactly 60 years ago, my very first visit to this, or any other cinema. I’d gone with the whole school – about 40 of us – to see the newsreel showing the Queen’s coronation. I remember queuing with all my classmates, quietly and slightly over-awed, outside this vast building and going up dark stairs to an even darker and cavernous auditorium. I remember the excitement of seeing that screen, so large it filled our entire view, with its flickering black and white images of the Queen’s horse-drawn carriage processing with regiments of bearskin-helmeted soldiers marching before her. But I can’t remember how we got there or how we got back: yet it must have been quite an expedition from our village school in Sandhutton, some 2-3 miles away, normally connected to Thirsk only by a twice-weekly bus.

So it was quite a shock the other day to discover that the Ritz is far from palatial in size. In these days of the multi-plex, it has room for only one screen. It feels small, intimate and cosily shabby, much loved by its team of volunteers of a certain age.

As part of our day out, we simply had to visit Sandhutton, the village where I’d spent several years and begun my school career. It looked much the same as I’d remembered it. There was the endearingly small parish church (I remember cathedral-like proportions) at one end of the village green, the pub at the other: it’s like a stage set for the Archers. Nowadays, the farm labourers who were our near neighbours seem thin on the ground. We called in at the village shop and found it selling an eclectic collection of fine wines, decent cheeses and craft-bakery cakes rather than more workaday essentials.

And my school, originally outside the village, but now joined to it by a street of modern housing, has become a community hall.

sandhutton school — The school at Sandhutton

Back in the early 1950’s, my mother was head of a two-teacher school, and we lived in the school house behind. Now it’s a handsome family dwelling. It always was, but it looks as though the privy is no longer at the bottom of the garden. Nor is the school’s row of outdoor toilets still in use.

The school had two classes. I was in the one for 5 – 8 year olds. Our teacher was Miss Burnett, and a recently found photo confirms that she was slender, white-haired and elderly. The high point of the day for the little ones was when we gathered round the school wireless to listen to that day’s broadcast of ‘Listen with Mother’. That same wireless broadcast ‘Music and Movement’ twice a week, and we pushed our desks to one side to prance around pretending to be storm-tossed trees, nymphs or dragons.

Sandhutton school 2 — Sandhutton Board School, built 1892

My mother had the 9 – 15 year olds. Those who passed their 11+ could go off to Grammar School. Few passed, and none went to the Grammar School in any case, as they were expected to leave school at 15 and get farm work. There were days designated as holidays from school when the older children went potato-picking.

And in those post-war vitamin C starved days, we would have whole afternoons when the entire school would go rosehip-gathering for the syrup producers such as Delrosa. Expert pickers could aspire to a tin badge for their efforts, but we 5 year olds had no hope of this exciting prize and our work went unrewarded.

I wasn’t at Sandhutton school for very long. My father was Polish, and like many of his countrymen had fled to Britain and joined the RAF during the war. Unable to find a job locally afterwards, despite his degree and excellent English, he’d gone to London. When he found work, he sent for us. London became my home until I left school.

My father’s work turned into his life-long business. My mother was able to return to her preferred option, teaching Classics in a Grammar School. And I tried to keep my head above water in a large inner-city primary school with as many children in a single class as we’d had in the whole of Sandhutton school: oh, and to lose my northern accent pdq.

Daffodil time

Ripon Harrogate road — On the road from Ripon to Harrogate

I had a very pressing reason for wanting to come back to England for a few weeks. I couldn’t wait for April, much less May. The March heat wave made me worry that already I might be too late: I needed to see daffodils.

Of course the French have daffodils in their gardens too. Well, some people do. You can even find them, delicate and lemon-hued up in the woods. But nothing to compare with our English exuberance.

Here, regiments of daffodils march down the edges of inner-city dual carriageways. Swathes of them along the verges announce the entrance to almost every town. Shopping centres have great tubs full. Gardens, whether tiny gravelled spaces in front of town terraces, cottage style plots, or more extensive lawned affairs, all boast generous clumps of brilliant yellow trumpets swaying in the breeze.

Ripley 1 — From the top of the bus passing through Ripley

Nothing else makes me so aware that winter’s on the way out. Not the blossom slowly unfurling on the trees, nor the spears of green thrusting through the soil and moss on every country walk, and in every garden. Of course I love these too. But for me, nothing but those bright assertive confident flowers can state quite so definitely – even defiantly – ‘Spring is here!’

College Court 1 — The Old College, Ripon

Snow 2

We Brits are famous for complaining when the Wrong Kind of Snow snarls up the networks. The trains don’t run, schools shut, and there’s a run on store-cupboard ingredients in the shops. The Daily Mail or some other self-styled Voice of The People is sure to announce that ‘We’re the laughing stock of Europe and America’.

Well, actually, life grinds to a halt when it snows in some parts of Europe too. Here for instance. There has been no schools’ transport all week: and with many children living out in the sticks, schools have been half empty. Markets, where we go to shop, catch up with jobs in town and to meet everyone we know, have pretty much not functioned for 10 days or more. Clubs and walking groups, concerts lectures and meetings: all have been cancelled or postponed. We’ve all left our cars at home and confined ourselves to doing what we can on foot.

Don’t we have snow ploughs here? Well, of course we do. In big communes like ours (there are 2000 of us you know), council workers do the job. In more rural spots, farmers may be pressed into service. But either way, they’ve all been to the same training school. After they’ve done their rounds, the ploughs leave an inch of hard-packed, glossily polished snow especially for drivers to enable their cars to take up skating. Lethal stuff.

Snow2Feb12 031 — The fast-flowing River Touyre begins to freeze

We’d hoped to drive to Barcelona this weekend to see Emily. Reading the local government website’s travel section soon changed our minds. We were recommended to use snow chains on several of the roads on our route. On others we’d be required to use them. Conditions are described as ‘very snowy’, ‘difficult’, and everyone we know says ‘Don’t go’. So we shan’t: not till the snow goes anyway.

Snow3Feb12 014 — Pollarded plane trees by the church before sunset

As in the UK, radio TV and the local papers are filled with stories of the Big Snow. The empty roads, the jack-knifed lorries (actually though, HGVs are kept off many of the main arteries and have either to turn back or make use of temporary lorry depots opened up for their use), the utilities failures, the heart-warming human interest stories – they’re all there. The snow stopped some days ago, but the sub-zero temperatures remain, and so the snow’s till here. What is different from England though, is the sky. Through the day, we’ve enjoyed a cloudless duck-egg blue sky. And that’s something to be relished.