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We had a really good time in Yorkshire even though we wereonly there for three days. The people were friendly, the scenery was superb, andthe air itself was fresh, clean and a joy to breathe in. Because of thecircumstances behind our visit, we were a little constrained as we were visitingfamily, and helping them say goodbye to a much-loved aunt, but we had mostThursday to ourselves, apart from a family get together in the evening, wherewe enjoyed a meal at the Shipley branch of Greene King’s Hungry Horse chain, whichwas a pub called the Noble Comb.
The place was cheap and cheerful, the food was well cooked, wellpresented and filling, and the staff, friendly efficient and accommodating. Wednesdaywas the day of the funeral, held at the local crematorium, nab wood, on theedge of ship play. It was a nice I touch it quite touching service presidedover by a celebrant rather than priest exactly the type of farewell I prefer. Afterwardsthe wake took place at the nearby Mercure Hotel, which overlooks someattractive and well laid out gardens.
That evening we joined Eileen’s cousin and her husband forfish and chips, at their house, just below the famous Bingley Five Rise Locks, onthe Leeds-Liverpool Canal, and the view across the valley to the hills on theother side, couldn’t have been more picture perfect. Matthew, Barry and I walkedthe short distance along the towpath, down into nearby Crossflatts, to pick upour supper from the local chippy, and this is where the northern preference forhaddock, as opposed to cod, came into play. It's worth noting thatcod wasn't even on the menu, in complete contrast to the situation inKent, where cod is the normal offering, and what if the customer wants haddock, it has to be specially cooked.
It was a smashing piece of fish, and the chips were equallygood, but Eileen’s cousin had another surprise up her sleeve by asking for a"scallop." This must be a posh fish and chip shop we thought, but her husband Barrysoon put us straight, explaining that chip shop scallop was just a slice of potatocoated in batter and deep fried. The other surprise was Barry’s requestfor a couple of tea cakes. This again confused me, as I thought a tea cake wassomething sweet and savoury – "Tunnock’s Tea Cakes" from Scotland sprang to mind,until our host again explained that a Yorkshire tea cake it's really just a large bap, similarin size and consistency to the barm cakes I remember enjoying during the yearsthat I lived in Manchester.
The following morning, we drove the shortdistance to Haworth, the small attractive, stone built town, made famousby the Brontë sisters. We had stopped there on ourlast visit to Yorkshire, five years previously, although my first visit tothe town was in the company of the previous Mrs Bailey and her parents. This wouldhave been back in the late 1970s, and apart from calling in at the Brontë Parsonage Museum, I don't remember much else from that visit, althoughwe did call in at and took a look around the local churchyard. This time aroundwe also parked close to the churchyard and walked along stone paved path throughthe graveyard around the church and down into Haworth itself.
Confession time, despite all thisexposure to the Brontë sisters - thetown’s most famous literary residents, I've never read any of the novels written by Charlotte,Anne, and Emily, although I did make a half-hearted attempt with Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. I've read several books that have beenhard to get into, but I'm afraid Emily's classic was beyond me, and I gave upafter just couple of chapters. Perhaps I will give one of the other Brontë books a gosometime, although if I'm honest, Victorian melodramas aren't really my thing.Walking down from the church and past the Black Bull pub wewere beckoned over by the rather enterprising proprietor of the Apothecary Tea Rooms, who asked if we fancied acup of tea. We got chatting and it turned out that he came from Plumstead, the area of south London where Eileen’s mother hailed from. After that, wecouldn't really refuse, so we entered this character’s well-appointed premises,and ordered a pot of tea. Eileen had a teacake, her curiosity having beenroused the previous evening, but as Matthew and I had enjoyed a full Englishbreakfast earlier that morning the pair of us stuck to liquid refreshment only.
Suitably refreshed, we carried on down Main Street, theobjective being, as far as I was concerned anyway, to seek refreshment of astronger nature, in the form of some Timothy Taylors excellent beers at the Fleece Inn, at the bottom of the hill. On the way down, we stopped for a look atone of the cottages, No. 62 to be precise, as this tiny two up three down, stone-builtmid terrace cottage, with the door opening more or less straight onto thestreet, was the house where Eileen’s aunt and uncle had not only spent the first years oftheir married life, but it was also where her cousin was born andbrought up. The family moved away from Haworth, as the town's reputation and popularityas a tourist attraction increased quite dramatically, and the settlementcease to be a normal workaday place to live. Instead the town became packed with dainty tea shops, souvenir shops and what I would loosely term as "Hippy shops" appealing to the alternativeculture. The final straw for her aunt and uncles family, was when visitors beganpeering through the front window, or even attempting to get in, should theyaccidentally have left the door on the latch. They moved away, to the smallsettlement of Crossflatts on the edge of Bingley on the old road out towards Keighley.
A shame, because even though it must have been crowded inthat tiny cottage, thisattractive Yorkshire hillside small town seemed an idyllic place in which to live and raise a family. The photo above, shows a renovated house,but on our previous visit to Haworth the property was being renovated, and the interior totally gutted. From memorywe were allowed a brief look inside, particularly after her cousin mentioned to the builders, the intimate family connection with the cottage.
Returning to the Fleece Inn for a moment, Mrs PBT’s decidedthat walking to the bottom of Main Street, would mean an equally lengthy, andrather steep descent, so I suggested we return to the top car park, drive downto the bottom of the village and find a place to park, closer to the pub. Thatwas the plan, and it would have worked had we found a suitable car-park. Instead,we ended up driving out of Haworth and followed a road out of the village andacross the moors.
The road continued climbing for some time, before descendingback down into a green and fertile looking valley, only for the process to repeat itself. Before long wefound ourselves on what felt like the "roof of the world," a situation which broughtback memories from my time in Manchester, as student. Back then, I made the occasionalforay up into the surrounding Pennine Hills, in a bid to escape the confines of the city. We passed a number of attractivelooking, stone-built pubs, clinging to the side of the hills. Several werebedecked with colourful window boxes and hanging baskets. I was really tempted to pullover and try a couple, and would have, had I not been driving.
We did eventually find a place to stop, right on top of oneof the fells, and a spot which commanded a fine, all-round view of thesurrounding country side. After studyingthe map, I decided to continue in a roughly north-westerly direction, in orderto pick up the A road into the Lancashire town of Colne. From there we couldloop around the next group of hills, in the general direction of Skipton. Wedecided not to stop at the town which describes itself as “The Gateway to theDales,” despite it looking an attractive place to explore. Instead, we continuedback down towards Keighley and then Bingley, before arriving back at out hotel.
After parking the car, I decided to walk from the hotel, along to theAiredale Heifer, a large, and attractive stone-built brewpub, on the roadbetween Bingley and Riddlesden. The Heifer is home to the Bridgehouse Brewery, but as Ishall be writing a piece about the pub, later on, so we’ll leave this tale ofour drive through the scenic fringes of West Yorkshire, back where we startedfrom, at the Premier Inn, in Bingley.
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