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

Up before 7 and breakfasted while watching remarkably trashy British television.


We then walked through the streets of Manchester to the station we'd arrived at the day before, and picked up our hire car. Dad drove us out of Manchester, and into the English countryside.

Our first glimpse of the moors in the distance was spectacular; we rounded a couple more Manchunian red-brick buildings, and suddenly there were rust-red hills filling the horizon, laden with sheep. The city's buildings petered out and left drystone walls, and almost before I had registered what was happening, I was staring at a Clydesdale, eye to eye through the car window.


We carried on for the rest of the morning and early afternoon, passing through dozens of hamlets too small to show up on mum's map (though ALL of them big enough to have their own pub). The houses that line the roads in most of these places are identical, save only for their (freshly-painted) doors, which seem to be the only permissible display of individuality. It's very neat and picturesque, but it feels rather oppressive to me - especially when you approach a town from a distance, and the identical roofs look like rows of thorns sticking up from the ground.

We stopped briefly at Harworth and walked around the house where the Bronte sisters lived - now I'll have some context if/when I read their books. We also drove through Harrogate, so now I understand why the town's name has become a by-word for the fancy middle-class. Hmm.

Mum, Pip and I were pub name-spotting along the way. Our favourites so far are the "Moon Under Water" and the "Carrion Crow".


Got to York around 3 pm. I had naively imagined that the walls of York would still be around the city, rather than lost in the middle like they are today! We spent this afternoon looking at Yorkminster cathedral (dead impressive architecture but unfortunately most of the carvings have crumbled away with age, and mum and I agree they could do with a comprehensive garage sale)... and this evening was spent wandering the streets of inner York in the dark. The area is really a giant tourist-trap, but once you recognise that, it's kinda fun. So many ancient buildings; there's one set in particular that I want to photograph tomorrow: "The Shambles". The buildings there are so old that they've buckled out of shape and bulge into the street.

Dinner was fish and chips in a place that purported to be the "Number one" chippy in York. The food was... alright. Heh. I was just so hungry, I didn't mind.

It's 8.20 now, and I'm writing this in my hardcover journal. In bed, in the Southlands Bed and Breakfast. A very frills-and-lace sort of place, but lovely and warm - and I'm looking forward to a hot breakfast tomorrow morning!

Zzzzzzzzzonk.