Canonisation of saints a hundred years posthumously assured obfuscation of evidence. It’s a useful blogging model. Not that we’re dead, but who can remember what they did a week ago? I can’t. This leaves one free to weave a rich tapestry (very rich, Harry informs me). Keep that in mind as you read on.
Godric lived on a diet of herbs, wild honey, acorns, crab-apples and nuts. He slept on the bare ground and often prayed, immersed in cold water, either in the river or in a barrel set in the floor of his chapel. He fasted frequently, wore a hair shirt and chain mail, and slept with a stone as a pillow in his small turf-roofed hut on the banks of the river Wear, some 6 miles from Durham.
Pilgrimages abroad and subsequent visits to Lindisfarne and the Farne Isles exposed Godric to the Monks’ tales of Saint Cuthbert, which left a profound impression on him, and he left his prosperous seafaring life to become a hermit. Initially living in caves and the woods, he eventually settled in Finchale after seeking approval from the landholder, the bishop of Durham, around 1112. Here he built and lived in his simple abode for sixty years, to the age of one hundred (1070 to 1170). Godric composed the earliest English tunes recorded by his biographer from Durham.
After his death, a priory was established at the site of his tomb, inevitably benefiting from the miracles thought to have occurred there. The priory was later (1300s) converted to a kind of holiday destination for Durham monks, where they stayed for three-week periods and got “told off for keeping sporting dogs and attending hunts”. It’s hard to ignore the model; we create the biggest, richest power structure in the world from Jesus’ “love thy neighbour” and a ‘miracle-working’ business, holiday-camp, hunting lodge from the prayers of a devout hermit.
Notwithstanding, the Finchale site is exquisite. Where Roman ruins outline foundations, at Finchale, the imagined ghosts of black-habited monks pace across the snow-covered cloister to the relative warmth of the chapter room to receive instruction on their Benedictine rule. Sandled feet can almost be heard dashing from the upper dormitory to the church for vespers, and there’s definitely the faint sound of chanting monks on the wind as it whistles up from the river Wear through the undercroft and out into the vast space of the church’s cruciform.
The lady at the Finchale Tea shop is a hoot, while her grandson and daughter wrestle playfully over how many biscuits to serve us with our Tea (“you’ve given them two!” says the brother, “I dont care!” the sister replies, boldly dishing them out. Neither did we), she tells of how they got caught in Mauritius on their 40th wedding anniversary due to the current strife in Iran (they were to fly home through Dubai) and Emirates got their whole group back after a week’s extended holiday for twenty seven thousand pounds (emirates expanse). She also mentions that one of her favourite things to do is go up to the highest pub in England, Tan Hill. Sounds cool, we think and head off for Tan Hill at about 2pm.
After an hour and fifteen minutes, we turn off the 70mph dual carriageway A1 onto a tarred goat track, it’s like passing through mist into Brigadoon, and instantly we’re in the Yorkshire Dales rolling moors (Heathcliff could have stepped out onto the road). It’s raining and blowing a gale, and the car thermometer drops to 3.5 degrees. Sat Nav says 6 miles, but there’s nothing, just a road rolling on into the distance. We pass three blokes on pushies, the one at the end in shorts and sandals. His face is ruddy, he’s struggling to hold the bike up against the wind, and he looks grim (later at the bar, they tell us they could hardly talk when they arrived) – so we saw them after they’d warmed up!
Tan Hill Inn came into view atop a small hill (at 1732ft). The car doors are nearly ripped off in the wind when we open them, and we hurry past the parked snowmobile (!) to the door. It’s packed, and all the tables are reserved. Shockingly, the only seats left were two cushioned stone benches by the smouldering fire. After a couple of pints, we got that fire roaring and found ourselves in the ‘best seat of the house’ (so said Marcus), holding court with the guests as they came in from the cold (or so it seemed to us).
The young teacher couple from Shropshire plan to do what we’ve done in the last two months during their two-week school holiday break. He’s tight (Self-proclaimed, but with strongly supporting facial features from her), but didn’t stint on his beloved car. Wow, we think old MG or WRX, maybe. Ford Fiesta, apparently. Each to their own. His titbit is that this is the most frequented pub by business people wanting an extended weekend, as it’s frequently snowed in, “can’t make it, sorry boss, snowed in”. Apparently, the tabloids have not infrequently reported “bar drunk dry at Tan Hill”
Marcus and Phil are up here in the camper van, comedy show tonight, walk planned for tomorrow. As the van rocks violently in the wind-blasts outside and waterlogged, grimacing walkers doff their sodden gear by the fire, we wish them well for the morning (sheets of rain, sleet and snow push them back after about 2 miles Marcus later reports). They’re discussing life choices post work, and Marcus is doing the French Camino same time next year so we’ll keep in touch.
Finally, we meet a mum and dad from Blackpool with six kids – they look remarkably relaxed considering. He plays masters league for five different league sides, and next year they’re planning a trip to Australia to watch the NRL. Very keen.
We leave on dusk in the wind and rain, which rapidly and somewhat sureally abates after leaving the moors and we’re home an hour or so later – actually, the Seven Stars is closed, so we debrief at the Rose Tree, where all the locals are in for the weekly quiz night. Tomorrow Whitby.
The drive to Whitby is all highway and some open country, easy and uneventful. A short distance from Whitby, a steep and winding road drops into Sandsend with spectacular views into the village and down the coast. Our little one-roomer at Whitby, a little further on, is clean and comfortable, and we dump our gear and head out.
It’s a howling gale in the small sea town, whipping sea foam up over the pier and blowing drips sideways off children’s icecreams (or perhaps they were chips of falling permafrost – it was frikking freezing). There are people everywhere, and the pier fun-parlours and fish and chip shops are doing a roaring trade (best fish and chips in England, apparently) in the long evening. We do a short recky across the opening bridge and up the ridiculously steep cobbled road to St Hilda’s Priory (goodness knows how many donkey-riding monks gave their all climbing this hill) before dropping back down some back streets and into the “White Horse and Griffin” for dinner. Dickens and Captain James Cook both used to dine here, the latter using it for a base from which to recruit sailors for his voyages – it’s also haunted!
Next day we do the lovely walk from Whitby to Robin Hood Bay south on the Cinder Trail (the old passenger and freight railway track) and back North on the coastal trail, about a 22km circular. Robin Hood Bay is a tight cluster of stone and brightly coloured timber-trim cottages nestled in a precipitously steep valleyed inlet. It was quite the smugglers’ cove in the 18th century, the towns ‘hidden cellars and steep streets designed to move goods from the docks to the top of the village without detection by excisemen’.
Today, proper nutbags are arriving from the West on some coast-to-coast run, and we watch them, sweaty and exhausted falling into the North Sea. We lunch at The Cove overlooking the waves – the cafe’s Lego Concord conspicuous amidst the Captain Ahab and other assorted nautical paraphernalia. Di takes the high road (Cinder Track), and I take the low road (coastal cliff line), with great views out over the countryside and rugged cliffs, and Di gets to Whitby before me. A quiet ale at the Abbey and Arch, and it’s off to bed.
A walk North to the White Inn towards Sandsend and a visit to the Captain Cook Museum in town fills our day today. We take a selfie through the whale jaw bones across the inlet to the priory – a picture that must surely appear in the faded pages of every UK summer holiday photo album ever collated. The windows of the Royal Crescent behind us share a similar view, and legend has it that the Priory’s distant silhouette was the inspiration for Lord Dracular’s castle. Bram Stoker stayed there in 1890 also making Whitby a popular destination for goths.
The Cook museum was fascinating, housed in James’ apprenticeship lodgings. You know the history. I didn’t know that Jim and his wife Liz had six children, all of whom died young. Liz lived on family-less till ninety-three. The letter she wrote to Lord Sandwich to ask for recompense for her husband’s death is exquisite in its balance of deference and assertiveness. She received a pension and half the profits from Cook’s voyages – clever lady!
After enjoying the cosy confines of the aptly named “Endeavour” pub across the road, we bag some fish and chips from “Tranches” and devour them hot while walking home. Well, I did, Di’s a little more dignified.
As an aside, amazing that St Hilda was sent by the King of Bamburgh Castle to the Monastery here shortly after Aidan was sent by the prior king to Lindisfarne. Aidan was Hilda’s spiritual guide and mentor. The Synod at St Hilda’s (664 CE) presided over by Hilda, debated whether the church would follow Celtic or Roman ‘rules’. Wilfred, who set up Hexham and was at Lindisfarne when Aidan was still alive, won the debate, and the Northern English Church aligned with Rome – Hilda, Celtic, was proper pissed with Wilfred. Hilda seemed to be well admired and ran both spiritual and administrative affairs of the “double monastery” (boys and girls) with incredible adeptness. She trained at least five blokes who became bishops – pretty amazing for that day and age. We note also that both Cuthbert (who was at the synod) and Hilda were humble, poor and concerned with the spiritual (from a Celtic perspective) whereas Wilfred was a very wealthy Prince Bishop concerned predominantly with power. One wonders what the church may have become were it not for man’s desire for power?
Our Thursday drive from Whitby to York is short (they all are, really) and we stop at “Castle Howard”, the scene of “Brides Head Revisited”. Grand and stunning, the paintings are incredible and we hear from the current 5th Generation Howard via his audio tour narration, how he and his brother used to have wheelbarrow races down the main hall. It was a homely touch. The architect with whom Howard the Earl of Carlisle developed a strong friendship and working relationship, Sir John Vanbrugh was also a playwright and gave the castle its Baroque (somewhat quirky) style. We loved it; house, walled garden, boat lake, forests and Gardens, the lot.
We also went to the home’s arboretum, which was nice for a walk but a little underwhelming. There were more inspiring trees around the house. Di went to the red squirrel enclosure there – the one place one might expect to get a glimpse of the now endangered species – in a cage. Nope. Very elusive, apparently (or else there’s just a sign on an empty cage with ‘very elusive – thanks for your ten pounds’).
We’re now in York and have ‘walked the walls’, ambled through the Shambles and quaffed tankards of mead in a ‘real’ Viking Tavern. I’m a skeptic, Vikings drinking mead would be a little like Bikies drinking West Coast coolers – it’s like lolly water. Tankards of ale sure, but mead? Don’t think so. Perhaps it’s the Viking music (ACDC and Bon Jovi) that’s aroused my suspicions of inauthenticity; however, the painted runes right above the radiator and the look-alike flat-pack olde worlde Viking chairs aren’t helping either. That said, we’ve come in from a flash downpour with about one hundred others and the dry-warmth, ale and conviviality (if not the music), have warmed our souls and we’re soon clanking tankards and singing Viking songs with the best of them. Revittaled and buoyed in spirit, we depart to that greatest of Viking Odes “Sweet Child of Mine”…and sack a nearby chocolate fudge chop.
Whereas we might have plain, salt and vinegar, chilli or maybe steak and pepper chips, over here they have plain, ox, boar, duck, etc., gamey stuff, but it’s all vegan! Last night, in protest, we went to Fish and Forest a very nice, if expensive, actual ‘game’ restaurant and enjoyed venison, pollock, ling and salmon. It was a nice change and they had to kick us out as we got to talking to a nice Irish couple Sean and Barbara from Dublin, and we yacked until close.
Somewhere over the last couple of days, we were enticed into the Holy Trinity (Goodramgate) Church by its handsome stone arch opening to a pretty little flowered garden. It’s only a small church; however, its candle and stained glass lighted interior, uneven stone floors, and old-dark timber boxed pews are quite charming. A lesbian couple are saying their vows when we go in and we note on a side table a story about Anne Lister born 1791, “a lesbian, adventurer and independent business woman who recorded her life in a series of coded diaries”. She shared the sacrament here with her partner Ann Walker on Easter 1834. Anne Lister was the first person to climb Vignemale in the French Pyrenees. She sounds pretty amazing.
Today we called home and chilled a bit – all this holidaying is hard work. This afternoon we strolled to the Phoenix, a local pub we spied from the city wall yesterday and found had live jazz on Sunday arvos. It was a six-piece; trumpet, clarinet, trombone, tuba, guitar and drums. The trumpet player was also vocals but Polly, the barmaid, jumped in and sung a few numbers too. Sun shining in the beer garden out back, coal fire burning, couple of drinks and kids dancing to the New Orleans Jazz vibe. It was very grounding.