Well we’re almost there sorting out the Javelina Hunt photo comp so… results tomorrow. In the meantime, let me show you an average weekend in the Pennines. Warning: Photo-heavy entry.
We, as you are probably by now aware are Yorkshire folk, wifey and I. We are very Yorkshire. We are so Yorkshire we should probably come with a Government health warning. And so it often galls me to discover Lancastrians that I like. Note for non-historians: The Wars of the Roses between York and Lancaster were (and are) to our counties what the Civil War was/is to the Northern and Southern States. Oh we don’t kill one another any more. It’s mostly about cricket and pride now, but still I twitch as I cross the border. I seem to be getting carried away with drivel. Back to the point, eh?
After my MRI on Friday we headed off to Skipton (close to the Lancashire border) where I had booked us into an Inn for the night so we could have a relaxing night away without the dogs. It was the night before Halloween (or Samhain for those of us who recognise the Celtic contribution to festivals that got trodden all over by Christians who didn’t like men in dresses with beards.) While back in our village there would be a few decorations and pumpkins out, the landlord actually did nothing to draw attention to Halloween in his pub. Skipton was quite different. Every pub in the centre of Skipton had gone mad with decorating. Every shop had staff in pointy hats. It was really energetic and lively. Here’s a slightly blurred picture of me next to my nemesis in the bar. The photo is blurred because it had to be taken phenomenally quickly before I ran away.
Yup. Incy Wincy up there may be made of styrofoam and black fuzz, but I still peed a little any time I went near it. In the gentlemen’s convenience there, I found this, which I quite liked:
Ah, toilet poetry, how you make my heart soar! Then around the pubs to sample the delights. Until we reached (insert dramatic music here)… the Pub of the Damned! Honestly, we approached the tall, 3-floor brightly lit building. And it was empty. All the other town pubs were starting to fill up heavily, but not a soul here. Warning bells went unheard. And then a chubby, shuffling barman with a runny nose came ambling out of a hidden area of seating. I asked for a pint of beer and a soda for wifey. He looked at me in vague confusion, sniffed back his dripping nose and said “Got no beer, sorry.”
No beer. In a pub. No beer! Well it’s no damn wonder there’s no customers! So I ordered a whisky. We stayed in the place for 5 minutes while I drank the whisky and the barman returned to his booth to stare at the floor, sniff, sigh and make growling noises. We left hurriedly, as though a the plague might follow us.
We continued round the bars and sat in one particular one beneath the sign that declares the folk who have been barred from the the town’s pubs. I took this because the 3rd and 4th names from the bottom of the list made me guffaw and I like to guffaw.
Nutter and Outlaw are banned from the pub. Nutter and Outlaw! Oh how I chuckled. We had a good night out and planned to stay up and make the most of our quiet romantic night away. But in fact, we got back, clambered into bed and were asleep by 11pm, and hour and a half before the bar beneath us emptied! Ah well. The next morning, at breakfast, I noticed the boards around the restaurant area, and almost gagged on my coffee…
Don’t know about you, but I’ve never had anything Scumptious. In fact, it’s quite high on my list of priorities never to HAVE anything Scumptious. And…
… I’ve never encountered orange Boobees before either. Must be something to do with carotene I guess. ‘Carotene the boobees’. Oh far too many jokes. But who, honestly, working for an English-speaking company, in England, would decide to produce a day-glo luminous drink with a dubious top-pipe attachment and call them Boobees? Really?
On we move round Skipton and to the castle, owned for seven centuries by the Clifford family, a very famous and important bunch in the North, and particularly in Yorkshire. This is the gatehouse of the castle.
As well as the castle, Skipton is well known for its canal which, as you can see, even in dull weather at the end of October is pretty.
And so we left Skipton. We sould a do a little touring about during the day until around 4:30 when the sun sinks below the horizon, or in Lancashire slinks away hoping not to be noticed… Sorry. That just crept in at the last moment. First up is a Roman fort at Elslack, just a few miles from Skipton. I have been past the place a dizzying number of times. Honestly, I must be in three figures for the number of times I have passed within 2 miles of this. And… warning… this is yet another sign of my mania. You know how I will travel 40 miles over unsurfaced roads to look at a brick that was left in a field by a Roman mason in the 3rd century? Well Elslack is the ultimate in SJAT-mania. There is, in fact nothing there. There is nothing to see. Nada. Zilch. Nietski! And I still made wifey detour and walk along an abandoned railway line so that I could photograph it. So, without further ado, I present the Roman fort of Elslack in all its glory:
Now you can’t tell me that wasn’t exciting. Eh? What is exciting, even for the total non-Roman fan is the content of the field.
Coz we love cows, don’t we. Everyone loves cows. Big, brooding black cows with murder in their eyes. Wifey loves cows. Can you tell?
And from there we cross over into Lancashire, and indeed into Lancaster itself. And here, even the posh places were getting into the Halloween spirit. Unless these maybe were customers who couldn’t pay their bar tab.
Slightly more exciting than Elslack fort, though probably not to normal people, is the Wery Wall and the bath house. Visible here is one room with the piles for underfloor heating. It was so exciting for me I went all squeaky.
Above the baths on the crest of the hill (and within the boundaries of the ancient Roman fort) is the church which is all that remains of Lancaster Priory. There was a service going on while we were there so we crept around very quietly inside. I didn’t even take photos inside as I didn’t want to disturb them. And then, as we stood looking at a book on the rack of the bookshop (yes the church had a bookshop!) the store owner came over and started telling us all about this book and what it was about. In a VERY loud voice. We made our excuses as politely as we could and sidled out.
Next to the Priory is the imposing Lancaster Castle. Very little of this is open to the public as it is, and has been for the last two centuries, a courthouse and prison. I suppose if you’re going to be in prison, why not in one as impressive as this, eh?
On the way back to the car, we stopped in a pub for a beer and I had the foulest, most disgusting, unpleasant, odorous, nasty and evil pint I have ever tasted. I took one mouthful, slid my pint away from me and swigged some of wifey’s soda to take away the taste. From Lancaster we had choices and problems with touring.
We had one place to visit south of Lancaster and a couple north. And because of the River Lune and the Pennine hills, the only ways to travel north to south or vice versa are on the M6 motorway or through the congested streets of Lancaster. So we headed to the place out south. And found ourselves on the congested road heading north from the town. Arse. So after thirty minutes in a traffic jam we managed to turn round and head south past where we’d spent the last hour. Finally we got out and onto a road heading out toward Cockersand. And then from the road onto the tiny tarmacadam snake that wound along the low grassy area to the coast. We met nery a car on the journey along that narrow road, which is good since, though it said single file with passing places, it patently had only passing places if what was passing you was a duck. If it was a car, one of you was reversing for 2 miles. We know this because we met four cars on our way back.
Anyhoo. This is the view across the Lune towards Fleetwood from where we parked. Nice eh?
A half mile walk from there along the coast brings you to what remains of Cockersands Abbey. The chapter house. Not a great or famous ruin, but just there and then, on the blustery west coast, in the sunshine, surrounded by murderous cows and a nervous wifey, it was lovely.
I’ll grant you that wifey looks bored. Actually she wasn’t. She was just relaxing and enjoying the view.
And the view was worth relaxing and enjoying too.
Next stop: Warton old rectory. North of Lancaster. Arse. So we decided, despite being warned to avoid it several hours earlier, we’d try the M6 northbound. And we breezed past Lancaster. We also breezed past the completely motionless three mile long queue of traffic heading southbound. Phew. That was lucky. And so we got to Warton and went to see the ruined medieval rectory. Here’s wifey looking like she’s Morris Dancing. Cool huh?
And here she is pretending I can’t see her…
And so the evening came on and we went to our friends’ costume and Halloween party. I hope none of them are offended by being shown in costume. Actually, one of them would rip my face off and use it to mop up my brains if i posted a photo of her, and so I have wisely left our one character. Here are the others:
Cowgirl and a slightly slipped spook.
Wifey doing 25 to life.
Yours truly after carving the dinner.
Nanny Ogg showing some leg.
Gandalf the Grey eats party snacks.
Herr Skeletor surverys his domain.
And Eldritch lady?
This man frightened a young girl enough that she shrieked and fell over. Fabulous.
The chuckle twins.
Don’t they look dead tired…
Feathers, feathers everywhere…
And that was the party. Tomorrow: The Scavenger Hunt results. See y’all…
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