The Beauty of The Lake District

We had to depart from the glorious Lake District today and leave the understanding beauty of the wise mountains, gentle fog, and exciting rivers. Our breakfast was at 7:30 and I got to watch the dark sky fade into light from my seat at the breakfast table. I thought a faint outline was simply a roof, but it turned out to be a mountain. I had a bowl of fruit, yogurt, and cereal for breakfast. My breakfast mates had all left the table, but Liz wanted me to make sure they didn't throw away her tea, so I sat there while the waiters cleaned up around me. They were very friendly and asked me where we were going today, etc. And as I was exiting the dining room, a couple (who were the equivalent of grown up, hiking-loving hippies) was very nice and asked me about our group and plans and so on. I like nice people.

We drove in our coach for a couple of hours and came into the town of Keighley. It must have been recycling pick-up day, as there were little blue bags beside nearly every driveway. Elizabeth Gaskell, in her biography of Charlotte Bronte, talks about the drive into Haworth, the drive that took us through Keighley. At the time she was writing, Keighley was transforming from a quaint, "old-fashioned" village into a more commerce, factory-centered town. She writes about how Keighley residents are not concerned with keeping up the town's beauty; to Ms. Gaskell's dismay, the town was turning into rows and rows of gray stone buildings (but were fortunately kept clean by the local housewives.) She talks about the roughness of the locals and implies they have lower modes of thinking as well as lower manners and morality.

My own impressions differ greatly from Ms. Gaskell's. From my contemporary, American perspective, I found Keighley to still be a quaint and lovely place. It seems people do indeed have a taste for aesthetics there, noticed in the flowerbeds and nice doors. Now I admit that I didn't talk to anyone there because we just drove through it in our coach, but they seemed just like any other British people with which I have come in contact; they were patient with our large coach on their small streets and there was no indication of road rage or uneasiness.

The gray stone houses and buildings, on the other hand, were not as clean as they were in the Victorian Period. If Ms. Gaskell were to see them today, I believe she would be appalled. Soot and moss, over time, have colored the stone. (I must admit, however that I like the way they look now, older and more historical. Plus, it gives the buildings more character.)

I am afraid that Ms. Gaskell was showing her southern prejudices towards the northern British, yet this is the environment that her beloved Charlotte Bronte and the other novelist Bronte sisters grew up in and knew.

A Street In Haworth
Mr. McCormick dropped us off at a car park in Haworth and we walked along the stone streets to get to the church and Bronte parsonage. I really loved the places between the street stones where the mortar had eroded away or never was applied. The result was little cracks filled with water and sometimes weeds. Charming. I liked the way the old walls lining some streets were built in a fashion similar to the streets, with squarish flagstones. It was like repetition in a piece of artwork.

We entered the church cemetery to be greeted by a dense forest of tombstones. There were so many of them, placed closely and unsystematically together, one marking as many as five people's burial sites in some cases. Ms. Gaskell mentions how "terribly full" the cemetery was in her time. I wonder if it has grown since then. I enjoyed looking around the graveyard and the mossed-over tombstones. There were daffodils or some spring flower beginning to sprout where it could find room. Imagine that-- spring flowers in January!

Ms. Gaskell doesn't speak highly of Haworth, but I found it a charming town. The people we came in contact with (inquiring about the toilets and in the pub) were helpful and just like people we met in Southern England. Ms. Gaskell said, "It can hardly be called 'country' in any part of the way from Keighley to Haworth." I found it very charmingly country in my modern mode of thinking, with its fields and not-too-busy streets.

The Haworth Parish

After walking around the cemetery, I entered the church, St. Michael and All Angels Haworth Parish Church. There was nothing too striking about it; it was just a sweet country church in which Charlotte's father was minister and in which she grew up and was married. There was a cool relief of The Last Supper behind the altar and lovely stained glass. One pane depicted Sir Galahad and it honored those who fought in both world wars. I guess the Bronte family, for the most part, is buried in that church, as there are wall and floor plaques in memorial of them.
There was also a copy of Charlotte Bronte and Arthur Bell Nicolls' marriage certificate. They got married on June 29, 1854. I wonder if she was a novelist prior to her marriage or if she just never changed her last name.

Regrettably, I didn't see the parsonage and no one I asked knew where it was. It was a disappointment, but it was closed for repairs, so the most I could have done was peer inside.

For lunch, we went to the Black Bull Pub, where Charlotte's brother, Patrick, hung out. There were many old paintings and engravings on the wall and antique ceramic statues and plates, etc. on the shelves. They were playing pop and techno over the speakers. A strange combination indeed. I had a Cajun chicken sandwich with chips and salad. I tried the mysterious "brown sauce" which was simply a close cousin of Worstershire sauce, I think, and very tasty on chips.

As we left Haworth in the rain, Liz pointed out a factory smokestack to me. It was old and brick and had what seemed to be wooden columns along a wooden walkway and what appeared to be windows at the top. I also saw a Methodist church, a church of Latter-Day Saints, and a Quaker meeting hall. I have hardly seen that many different denominations here in England, let alone in one town.
Mr. McCormick said later that Haworth was historically a woolen mills town. He also told us of James Herriott, whose real name was James Alfred Wight. We drove through the town he lived in, Thirsk, where his son is now one of the senior partners in the veterinary business that his father started. What a good man.

Rievaulx Abbey's Refectory, where the monks ate their meals

We arrived at Rievaulx Abbey (pronounced "ree vau," I think) in a couple hours and were able to take a short look around it before it closed for the day. Abbot William, who came over from a monastery in Clarivant, France in 1132, started it. The men who lived there were of the Cistercian Order, which was dedicated to a simple way of life. The men lived off the land with sheep providing them with wool, milk, mutton, manure, and bone and horn (to make various tools and instruments.) They got leather from cows and pigs, made glass, and grew crops.
At the height of the abbey, there were 640 monks and lay brothers living there. There was a slight hierarchy; the abbot was the father to the monks and was in charge of discipline. The choir monks spent their time in study, services, and prayer; they were the ones who knew how to read and write and did little labor. The cellarer had power because he controlled and managed the food, drink, fuel, and equipment of the abbey. The lowest on the ladder were the lay brothers who were the manual laborers and could not rise up the ranks.
By the end of the 14th Century, there were only 14 monks and 3 lay brothers remaining. This was in part due to the abbey's plundering by the Scots in 1322 and the Black Death from 1348 to 1349. There was much debt and it was hard to find new recruits. Then, in 1538, the abbot surrendered the abbey to the crown, Henry VIII. There were 21 monks residing there at that time. This was the end of the Cistercian way of life. Sad.
I was really impressed by the high-tech items the monks made and used. They had candles, thimbles, cool-looking triangular shears, strap ends to stop leather from fraying, and buttons. They actually took baths, although the ill got the privilege more frequently than the healthy monks; if they considered it to be a privilege is another question altogether. There is also evidence of extensive stained glass. There was an exquisite peacock carving which is said to have been a symbol of purity or conversion to Christianity. In that case, I am surprised we haven't seen more.
Walking around the actual ruins was eerie. I was reminded of Friedrich, a Romantic artist who depicted abbey ruins and spirits in his paintings. While the lighting was not as surreal as the coloring he chose for his pieces, I felt like I was in a painting. Moss and grass had grown on and around the remaining walls and doorways; it was kind of like nature was reclaiming the rocks and could have been a spiritual experience indeed, among the glorious hills and forests that the ruins are tucked away in.
For a while after it was rebuilt and enlarged in the 13th Century, it was the largest church in England, with services 7 times a day, 5 during the day and 2 at night. In the Day Room, the choir monks copied manuscripts of the Scriptures with deep concentration.
As we drove away, I couldn't help but think about how the town of Rievaulx would have been different if Henry VIII hadn't shut down the abbey. Could it have been a city equivalent to London? I must say, however, that I am incredibly relieved it isn't such a metropolitan place because the balance of nature and countryside surrounding the remains of Rievaulx Abbey is overwhelmingly charming. I think the fact that it was tucked away in the Northern hills adds to its fantasy for me.
I only saw him for a split second, but there was a man holding open a gate for his dog to enter along the side of the road. He wore a long plaid green vest with a matching hat as well as knee-length pants and socks, like polo players wear. He looked so dapper, good-looking and gentle, like an apparition.
I am excited to reflect on Wordsworth's thoughts while he was writing above Tintern Abbey. His tone is so quiet and reflective, which are qualities I experienced while exploring the ruins. Although I was not alone out there, the silence surrounded me. Maybe our feelings of reverence for the beauty of nature and the history around us and the men who devoted their lives to God and simple living made us all more meditative. And of course dear Wordsworth repeats "green" a lot and there sure was a lot of it among the ruins-- in the cushions of grass, in the moss taking over the stones, in the distant hills…
We drove a few hours more to York where we checked into Lady Anne Middleton's Hotel. Our room is much simpler than any of the other rooms we've stayed in on this trip, but it is nice and clean and warm. I am pleased to say it is retro, in a way. We have bumpy wallpaper and this cool wicker lampshade over the central light bulb that checkers the light and cute flowers on our embroidered bedspreads. Our keys are also old-fashioned.
For dinner, we went downstairs to a retro dining room. There were pink curtains covering the glass roof and wood beams and columns along the walls. It was classy rustic; I felt like I was in a fancy mountain lodge or something. For appetizer, I had cream of tomato soup (a delicious favorite of the British, apparently); for dinner, I had chicken, potatoes, and other vegetables. The chicken had a sweet sauce over it. For dessert, I had a refreshing bowl of fruit.
Liz went on a ghost walk after dinner (which she thoroughly enjoyed), so I was in the room by myself. I tried to find something on TV and discovered a BBC radio program on. It was cool; this guy's program played a variety of different music, loosely connected-from Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake" to the Beatles' "Blackbird" to Kah's song from Disney's "The Jungle Book" and some other beautiful classical music. I took "Blackbird" to be a sign as I was feeling discouraged about the complaining at dinner as we were all tired from a day of traveling and sightseeing. Ah! The Beatles always have a way of making me feel better about things.