Lincoln

Staggered out of bed at 9, after having another vivid dream; jet lag seems to cause it. Every night since we landed, I've had very detailed dreams with complex plots, which all seem to involve speaking with Pat - who then turns into someone else, halfway through conversation. Odd.

Breakfast was lavish, with copious amounts of fruit salad, toast, and yacht-sized cups of tea. Barbara wouldn't let anyone serve anything themselves - we have been waited on, hand and foot since we arrived... which is terribly nice of her, but leaves me feeling very crude, and fairly ineffectual. Then again, I wonder if she'd just be offended by people helping out in what is definitively HER kitchen (which is a thing of spotless, vintage beauty)?


After breakfast, Malcolm donned his Wellingtons and showed us around their garden, which they've built from scratch. When they moved in it was a paddock, but now it's full of perfectly-aligned trees, with flower beds coming. Mum and I were intrigued to see all the plants we've read about since we were small, from British children's books. The authors always write about poplars and oaks and privet and laurels - and for a kid living in Australia, it's a stretch of the imagination to try and envision them all. Holly, for instance, turns out to be a tree, not a bush. And I've seen real hedges, now, all along the country roads around Lincolnshire.

The four of us set out mid-morning for Lincoln. The cathedral can be seen from miles and miles away, and is about twice as huge as I was expecting. As we approached, a funeral procession was leaving, and the last bars of Widor's "Mighty Toccata" were being played on the organ inside. WHOA.

Having always had an ambiguous relationship with religious places, I was genuinely surprised by how beautiful I found the building. Much less cluttered than Yorkminster, and... somehow... a more inviting place. Like the building was looking politely down on me, telling me it was really OK to be an atheist, but would I perhaps like to reconsider? (Sorry, dear cathedral. I wouldn't.)

The choir stalls were particularly glorious: dark polished wooden seats (proably oak), each with a pile of red and green leatherbound hymnals in front. I felt almost overcome; apparently I miss singing in the cathedral at home more than I had realised.


We strolled down Steep Hill through Lincoln itself (or at least the tourist quarter), which is filled with almost as many quirky and malformed half-timbered buildings as Old York, all of which seem now to be tea houses, secondhand bookshops, or sweets shops, which very few exceptions. I fulfilled one of my British ambitions at "Goodies of Lincoln": ever since I was small and read gran's copies of "Lion Annual" cover to cover, I have wondered what Humbugs taste like. Answer? Minty and awesome.

At the bottom of the hill mum and I found St Mary Le Wigford, the church where her grandparents were married. The same altar steps are still there. It was remarkable to have such a tangible experience of family history, halfway across the world from "home"... and such a contrast to the cathedral up the hill.


We returned to the car and headed back for Brinkhill, getting lost in the process. Mind you, that meant the passengers (Pip and I) got to see even more of Lincolnshire than planned, as dusk was falling. Light seems to work differently, here in northern England - and I don't just mean it gets dark at 4.30 pm. The light during the day is... @kinder@; more diffuse. The sun seems to "warm" colours, not just bleach them out; seeing Lincoln cathedral turn honey-coloured in the late afternoon was quietly glorious. Sunset seemed to stretch on in pinks and oranges and aquas for more than an hour. But what really struck me was when I looked the other direction after sunset, to see the near-full moon rising over the fields. It was ENORMOUS! As well as being golden, and shrouded in wisps of cloud, it seemed to be the size of a pumpkin when compared with the apple-sized moon that rises at home. "A gold dubloon", just like the Ted Hughes poem my yr 12 English teacher liked to quote at us.

Dinner was about 2 hours ago as I write this, and again was both lavish and delicious (I am being spoilt rotten!!). Salmon on stir-fried vegetables with sour cream, on asian noodles. With citrus tart and poached plums for desert, with cream. Now that I've happily digested all of that, and it's 9.30, I think it's time for sleep. Up early tomorrow to visit Gainsborough in time to see a tidal bore. After all this family history mum's been doing, the rest of us are a little worried she'll be overcome with the "Gainsborough longing"... like Legolas hearing the sea for the first time...

York 2

Pip and I were up early (VERY early in her case - jet lag demons) in our room this morning so as to be able to be on-time for breakfast. The Byzantine mysteries of our shower defeated us (would YOU have been looking for a pull-cord across the room?!), so we bundled into mum and dad's room for that instead.

Breakfast was an incredible spread, cooked by Karen (the owner) and a woman who may have been her mother. It began with enormous cups of coffee and tea; brown-bread toast with homemade preserves; fruit salad topped with local yoghurt; AND the option of cereal. Karen's mother then plied us with plates of sausage, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, and egg. Conversation went something like this:

Karen's mother: Ahh y'raaaht f' tohhhst?
Dad: Fine, thanks - I'm very full.
Mum: Thankyou, but I've had plenty already.
Karen's mother: Raaaht, then - aah'll bring y'aaht soohm mooore!

It was an extravaganza: the English ur-breakfast. Afterwards we rolled placidly out the door and up the hill towards "inner York", and walked around a section of the city walls. The reason they're so well-preserved is apparently thanks to an Archbishop who threw a wobbly when someone widened part of a gate to make room for horse-drawn traffic; he was so incensed that he banned any further changes to the structure. Hence, there aren't even any handrails, and it's a fair way up.


They are beautiful walls with their weathered stone... even though their original purpose was far from ornamental. From the battlements we saw grey squirrels, English magpies (nothing like Australian ones), blackbirds, a coal-tit, and even a robin. It's surprisingly disconcerting to be in a country where I have difficulty recognising even the most common birds...

We eventually climbed down and headed off to the Jorvik museum, which is built on the site of 1970s excavations which unearthed a Viking-era settlement under York ("York"... "Jorvik"; I see the connection). The presentation of the museum is very flashy (animatronics, holograms, guides in costume, even synthesised Viking-y smells) but when you arrive at the section with actual information content, it's fascinating. They've based all their tableaus on "real evidence", and from what I could tell, they really mean it. Even the dummies are based on facial reconstructions of skeletons found on the site - which is an imprecise science, but you can see they're making a huge effort, and it pays off. The display cases on tools and trade were particularly fascinating, as were the human remains showing disease and medical practices of the time.


We spent the rest of the morning wandering The Shambles and bits of Old York, peering in windows of obscure shops, and taking lots of photos. Then Pip and Dad set off to collect our luggage and car, and Mum and I met them outside Micklegate Bar.

We drove out of York, and through the Yorkshire countryside. An attempt was made to visit the battleground at Stamford bridge (an exciting prospect to a girl who has watched Simon Schama's "A History of Britain" at least thirty times through) but the site appears now to be in the middle of someone's farm, under a transmission tower. We carried on through villages with delightful names until we entered Lincolnshire. A stop was made at Cleethorpes in order to witness one of the most depressing beaches I've ever seen. It had sand - that was about the only resemblance it bore to what I think of as "beach". The bitter cold, drizzle, and stench of chimney smoke from coal fires urged us back into the car quite quickly, but now I understand why the English are so mad-keen about Australian beaches.

We carried on to Brinkhill, which is where we are staying for tonight and tomorrow night, with Barbara and Malcolm - two of dad's friends from when he lived in Sheffield. They are absolutely lovely people, and incredibly eager hosts (I have been ladled full of lasagne, salad, and "surprise pie" with berries and cream). Barbara in particular is very chatty. Their house is called "The Manor", and is a big Victorian house that they've done up over 11 years or so, including the garden. The only appropriate word I can summon up is "oppulent"... I had heard legends that told of carpeted bathrooms, and it turns they were true.

I feel that in this case, the pictures (though blurry) really will do a better job than I at explaining...