Flood Tide of Shadow

A sun-dappled morning in Locke Park, Barnsley, Yorkshire. Careful, don't get your feet shady!

Adventures in Yorkshire Pt. 2

The boys and I each did something we wanted yesterday -- they extensively prowled the sunny streets of Barnsley in search of sweet things to eat and things that made noise -- and I got lost in the moors. 

 

We did manage to discover an old lane in town (narrow cobbled pavement bordered by quaint shops, nicely claustrophobic) and I introduced them to "The Pinfold," where (as explained by a book of poetry I bought about the town's historical spots) stray critters from the market were rounded up -- rather like the dog pound), and we visited Cook's Gallery, which featured both contemporary art (such a pair of glasses and glasses-case labeled "The Artist's Glasses," complete with long and unbelievable justification, and a pair of dental retainers mounted to the wall like butterflies, complete with extracted molars for bodies -- which Bentley enjoyed, being the proud wearer of such a device) and a back room containing 18th/19th century works by artists I'd never heard of, with the exception of a Henry Moore drawing.

 

Then, rather famished, we got what might loosely be termed lunch at an off-license shop before I allowed the boys to vegetate at the house while I continued on my way to the legendary Mam Tor ("shivering peak" -- so-named because it is in a continual state of landslide). This involved wending my way across several miles of woodland, past reservoirs, until reaching the attractive town of Castleton, named for Peveril Castle, a ruined 12th century stone structure overlooking the town. It was overrun by schoolchildren and by blackfaced sheep whose redolent droppings festooned the well-chewed grass. Below the castle was an enormous cave, nestled between two sheer tree-draped cliffs populated by a circling bevy of rooks whose mewls echoed off the limestone walls.  I opted not to take a tour of the cave, which is billed as "The Devil's Arse."

 

Rain began to set in over the peaks at this point so I headed back to try to locate the metroplis of Wigtwizzle.  No, that is not a typo.  It was clearly marked on the map but as a twisted and turned up and down the one-lane tracks across the moors, no such place appeared, unless it was the name of one of the small farms sprinkled among the hills.  Aside from traversing these "roads" for about an hour I also had missed one crucial turn and gotten stuck in traffic for about an hour (!) heading into Sheffield. I felt like sausage meat might, being forced into its skin, but I finally was able to extricate myself.

 

After the crushing Wigtwizzle defeat I continued meandering in the general direction of Barnsley, stopping briefly at Bolsterstone, a refreshingly civilized, though very small, farming village atop a hill, where I got out to stretch my legs in the old cemetery with its forest of wafer-like moss-covered headstones. (I parked beside the town stocks. I kid you not.)  I was chagrined to discover an actual funeral just dispersing, so I made myself scarce among the dead until the mourners had left.

 

I careered downhill to the steel-town of Stocksbridge, which was quite large and butt-ugly, at least what I saw of it, an assessment I rarely make about English towns, being an incurable romantic even about industrial sites. But there you have it. And I returned to home base around 6, two hours later than estimated.  After dinner I took my favorite walk across the park, up the stonewalled lane, down through a fallow field (drenched in vermilion light from the 9:30 sunset), looping back up the road past horses and cows to the house.

 

And so to bed.

Adventures in Yorkshire Pt. 1

 

This morning at  6 AM, the boys and I wandered down the road into Barnsley center.  I'd managed to convince them (a) not to go without me and (b) wait until daylight,  Yes, we're all jetlagged.  All was quiet except for the odd garbage truck, reeking slightly, and a few early birds loitering about the news agent, where we stopped in to ogle the penny candy while averting our eyes from the prominently displayed girly magazines.

 

The boys homed in on the shopping mall, which was of course locked up, and they were fascinated by the new bingo hall. Neither knew what bingo was but the relativly snazzy architecture, at least for Barnsley, lured them.  I'd pointed out a few landmarks, such as the tower of the city hall, and pointed out that should they get lost they should head for the church spire across the street from our house.  However when we returned after our walk to the main roundabout, Nick was totally turned around.  I'm glad I hadn't turned them loose to explore or who knows where they might have ended up. 

 

At about 9 we drove up the rather boring but efficient motorway to York, which Nick (and I, for that matter) hadn't seen since 1995.  Passed the Tadcaster Brewery.  The grassy hill on which sits Clifford's Tower was covered with Canada geese and goslings. We went in -- it's just a modest site -- picked up some souvenirs (Nick happy to find spoons) and walked the battlements, from which we got a good overview of the town center and the Ouse River. I think the story of the 12th century Jews who burned down the original wooden trower with themselves inside it, rather than renounce their faith to the authorities, impressed Ben.

 

Then after a quick peek into the Museum of York we wandered through the narrow, lopsided, half-timbered streets of 'the Shambles' en route to York Minster cathedral.  Many stalls were set up in a square, selling everything fom clothes and jewelry to ostrich burgers and fudge, the latter of which we sampled and bought. The fudge company was called Mad Cow Fudge and all the flavors were correspondingly named: Depressed Cow, Bored Cow, etc. 

 

Fudge notwithstanding, we had a bite of lunch in a cafe (baguettes) and then toured the Minster, including the undercroft, featuring excavated Roman, Norman, and Medieval foundations and artifacts -- statuary, frescoes, chalices...and a large hunk of masonry that had fallen on a parishoner in the1300s or so and not killed him, thus becoming a Miracle immortalized in the Minster's stained glass.

 

We walked circuitously back to the car. The rain had set in by now so  we headed back on the A19 via Selden, which has an abbey nearly as impressive as the Minster, though we stopped only long enough for me to take a photo of some derelict industrial buildings that caught my eye, and through the sadly uninteresting town of Bentley near Doncaster (which the boys missed anyway since they had fallen asleep in the back seat after playing an evidently exhausting game of Top Trumps with Nick's new jet fighter deck, which he'd picked up at Waterstones Bookstore when I nipped in looking in vain for the latest Brian Aldiss book. Thus we looped back to Barnsley, whereupon we all collapsed into bed about 3 PM.  I awoke at 6.30 thinking I'd slept through the night.

 

Fog had set in by this time and I took a stroll around the vastness of Locke Park next to the house, before a dinner of pesto pasta. Boys woke up about 9.30 PM (still light out!) and immediately began playing PlayStation. I hope to get them into bed at a reasonable time tonight to try and get them over their jet lag.