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We woke early in York and took off straight away. A quick stop for 'morning coffee' (so dad could remember to stay on the left side of the road) and we followed the GPS back out to Stamford bridge. We all have a laugh about its anonymity and bought a couple quick postcards and were quickly on our way back into York. As predicted, within half an hour we passed by the Holiday Inn Express once more on our way out of town to the north. Today was to be a day of unpleasant driving, all the way to Scotland to spend our first of two nights in the Stirling Holiday Inn Express. As we left York, we reviewed the laptop and the British heritage maps to see what sights were available for our inspection. We were to be pretty much on the Motorway (freeway) most of the day, but we have a chance to stop at some historic sites using our free or discounted English Heritage Membership.
This particular day was busy at Riveleaux as engineering-types, either employees of the government or English Heritage, were walking about with ladders and surveyor's tools, taking minutely precise readings of the various walls. It felt good to presume that my English Heritage fees were being put to good use.
By the was, it was July 6th and these kids were on a school outing. We took time to remind Jesse that he had been on holiday for five weeks, with six more to go. Then it was back to the van to press on northward toward Scotland. It was getting to be late in the afternoon, around 4pm, so it was nearly closing time as we approached the ruins at the Mt Grace Priory. While the British Heritage card was nice to have for the discount admission, it was still necessary for us to be present at these different historic sites before they closed around 5 o'clock. That was something that was usually quite difficult for us to do. The Mt Grace Priory ruins were also pretty run of the mill, and my expectation was that we might spend ten or fifteen minutes on a quick walk through, take a couple pictures, then be on our way. This would be good, since we still had over 5 hours driving ahead of us on our way to stay in Stirling, Scotland. I had no way to expect what would happen to us next.
I approached and called for them to 'move on' so to speak. We entered the restored house portion and took the brief walking tour, looked at the diaramas, and browsed the gift shop. Lyn then told me that the scruffy-looking fellow actually worked at the ruins as a handy-man and maintenance man, but that still was no comfort to me. I had every expectation that, upon our exit in a few minutes, we would find him washing our car windshield and looking for a handout. (oops, sorry Sid). The staff in the museum entrance and gift shop was young, and totally disinterested in us and our interests, moreso than typical British stuffiness, and nearing the line of being somewhat rude. I was reminded of a typical American ten year old. So we walked around a little read the diaramas and learned about the Abbey. Once again, this was another historic structure, built by the Catholics, used for centuries, and destroyed by Henry VIII. It was an abbey, but more interestingly, also a retreat for religous pilgrims. Built by hand from rough block, it looked for all the world like a half millinium old motel. There were lines of small, modular living quarters adjoining one another and laid out generally in a square pattern around a square courtyard. The ruins of the cathedral were impressive, and would have been the central focus for the monks during their retreat. Records had shown that many lived there for extended periods, while others essentially 'took holiday' at the facility. The priory suffered the same recent fate typical of many ruins we visited. After Henry and his cohorts destroyed the place, it lay abandoned for a couple of centuries except for the penny pinching farmers that further vandalized it for blocks or other supplies. These would be the same penny pinchers that knocked down and cut up stones from Stonehendge to use as farm and barn footings – still a mystifying fact we discovered while visiting the Salisbury plain. (Often the older folks that lived through America's 'great depression' exhibit a similar lack of appreciation for history and respect of institutions greater than themselves, but I digress). At some point in time, a wealthy historic minded individual, purchased the ruins from the then current owner, usually a great-grand or great-great-grand offspring of some original flunky given the destroyed property during Henry's reign. These offspring gladly take money for their inherited 'worthless' property (after first selling off some of the priceless and irreplacable details). The new owner, usually an amatuer historian trying to rescue a piece of British heritage, uses their own personal funds (this being the vogue in the early 1800's) to fix up a portion of the ruins, with general historical dignity but with definate modern Victorian trimmings, to be their personal residence. The property managers in current times are in a quandry as it becomes diffficult to rip out these inappropriate Victorian enhancements as they themselves are now centuries old and are also a tribute to the man that saved the ruins for eventual preservation and display. What a confusing mess of mixed standing and excavated ruins, modern authentic replacement portions, and now antique residential conveniences!
He eventually introduced himself as Sid Carson, grown up in Ireland and employed by British Heritage as a groundskeeper at various sites for the last dozen years, at the monestary here for the last two or three. Indeed he mowed the grounds, fed the geese, raked the leaves, repaired the roof, etc, etc. But he seemed to possess an incredible depth of knowlege and was gifted with the ability to easily share it.
By now we had bonded with Sid and we asked him more and better questions. From time to time he would go off and do a chore to give us some time to ourselves (to enjoy the tranquility of the ruins and imagine ancient life) but we would then seek him out again with more questions. He told us about excavations that had been performed about two years previously, that had uncovered the old kitchen including the remains of actual table scraps from the day (it is presumed) that the monestary was abandoned. He told us of the vegetable rinds and fish bones that were uncovered. Also, certain flower seeds were found that, either accidentally or by design, when churned up during excavation and, thus returned to the surface, actually sprouted the following season. He told us to look up in the National Geographic, a certain year and month, to see the article about the 'ancient flowers' that had miraculously grown in the courtyard of this pillaged monestary. We did scan the web history, but could not find anything on the subject. But it was all so fascinating and enjoyable for us! By now we were smattered with Sid, so I moved the discussion onto other topics. As an American, I wanted to understand what was taught in school about the Saxons and Normans, and about Henry VIII and the Catholics. He chuckled and would not comment beyond a simple 'that was quite something'. I continued to press the subject, since it all seemed so strange (how King Harold got so little press, how the modern phrase 'ethnic cleansing' is never applied to William the Conquerer). Sid explained that he was born in Ireland (a Catholic country) and was a schoolboy over there. Yes indeed, he reiterateded, what Henry VIII did was 'quite something' that he would need to 'answer for' in the afterlife. And that was that. My mind could not help but drift back to our desk attendant at the Marriot Courtyard in Lincoln and his use of the street lingo 'acting Irish' to mean acting silly. I pressed Sid on the issue and he laughingly relished my notice of that. I compared it to the silly and pointless 'Polish jokes' that were once so popular in my own country. But here was Sid, a quiet Irishman, full of life and full of stories and willing to share them with us. Our hour with Sid Carson this day was, without a doubt, the highpoint of our entire trip to Britian. It was time for Sid to pack up and head home for supper and we still had several hours of driving ahead of us, so we bid him adieu after taking a last couple of pictures. We stopped by the museum giftshop on the way to the car to pick up our now standard site booklet and postcards. As we checked out, we made small talk about Sid with the bored and self-consumed young British woman at the counter, trying to explain our delight at the precious gift we just had received. She cut us off with a wave of her hand and let out a big condescending "Oh, yeah, Sid". In a conspiratorial stage whisper, she apologized to us in case he had 'ruined your time' and confidnetly explained that he simply made up all those silly facts that he uses to distract the tourists. After all, she reminded us, he was 'just the groundskeeper' and besides that he was 'Irish'. And so it goes. So it was now definately time to hit the road for the several hour drive to Stirling, Scotland. I had picked a route that took us through several large cities in the northern part of England. We did not plan to visit any more attractions today, just to get the feel for these northern cities and judge if they were the same or different from those to the south. Also, we could decide if we would want to spend additional time in this region during our 'next trip to England'.
We drove through Sheffield, and Newcastle and drove ourselves right
downtown in both cities. We drove on into the darkness, finally crossing the Scottish boarder after dark. This would make it around 10pm, and too dark to take a picture of the "Welcome to Scotland" sign, (which we took anyway). Southwest Scotland seemed exactly like most of urban England. Same general geography. Same duplex homes. Of course, beautiful coastline quickly disapperaing into the total blackness of night over the British North Sea. We got out the laptop and began to navigate tightly. Jesse had dozed off in the back, Lyn and I were chatting amiably (what, not bickering?) and keeping a very very keen eye on the map. We had made reservations at the Holiday Inn Express in Stirling for two nights in a row, what a treat to not have to pack-unpack-pack. We had picked up one of those lobby cards from the Holiday Inn Express in York, so we had a cartooney map with cartooney directions to somewhat follow. We were concentrating on the Motorway exit and skirted along the south side of Edinburgh without even slowing down (and only missing two different turnoffs). By now, driving on the left side of the street was only confusing for me late at night, when I was tired, and crossing new terrain after a long day of driving. Oh dear! Obviously tonight was a night for us to tightly track the GPS and the laptop.
I then returned to the lobby to park the van and return to crash in the room. The hotel had some kind of informal Lobby / Pub arrangement, much like a Courtyard by Marriott back in the states. Oddly, for being past midnight, half a dozen 'businessmen' were hanging out and sucking down brewskis and carrying on both amiably and loudly. I don't to this day know if this was some strange group of long-term travelers (military, airline pilots, government auditors) or just an example of Scottish how-dyo-do. But it was a little wierd and I passed through them, to the elevator, and crashed in bed quickly and soundly.
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Copyright, 1999, all rights reserved |
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Originally Written November 1999 |
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The
motorway and countryside north of York passed with
sublime boredom. We stoppe around lunchtime at the Riveleaux Abbey
ruins, read the various signs about life in the abbey, and shot a
roll of pictures. The ruins were pretty standard fare, not too much
different from the several previous sites. There were several
precarious stacks of stones among the ruins, amazing me that some
century ago farmer hadn't knocked them down and hauled them off.
Again, the stone walls from the origincal central cathedral structure
was 70% in place and visible, open to the elements with grass growing
in all the inner courtyards. Again, the outer buildings were really
little more than exposed excavated footings or foundations. Again,
wonderful signage explained contextually the various buildings,
activities, and residents from centuries ago.
We
were there amongst a large group of schoolkids, being led generally
by a youngish teacher. They seemed to be of 5th or 6th grade (like
Jesse) and she seemed to still have that optimism and enthusiasm that
quickly marks a school teacher as a recent graduate. I walked from
place to place, soft tailing the major portion of her group,
listening to the ideas she expressed and points she tried to make. It
was fun to eavesdrop. Of course, several 'facts' were open to
interpretation if you grew up elsewhere, but that is what makes life
fun. We still to this day cannot figure out the British cultural
interpretation of the Saxons (Kings Axelrod thru Harold), the
Normans, the pope (and Saint Thomas Becket) and Henry VIII. Just like
a Brit might talk of 'traitors' of the American revolution or the
'hero' Benedict Arnold (which we didn't hear about either), I could
not overhear enough to discern the culture norm explanation of
various historical epochs that resulted in the ruins we were
enjoying. Oh well.
It
started when I dropped Lyn and Jesse off at the door. When I
returned from parking the van, I found them feeding bread to some
geese. This type of activity had upset me just the previous few days,
(it being my opinion that you don't pay thousands of dollars, spend
hundreds of hours driving to arrive at some centuries old ruins only
to feed geesies or to pet horsies). This certainly did not bode well.
Also, they had struck up a conversation with a somewhat seedy
character, who to my first impression seemed like a typical American
'homeless guy', who was also feeding the geese with them while making
quiet small talk with the most vulnerable members of my family.
Again, not a good sign.
I
had walked around diaramas to get the layout of the adjoining
courtyard. There were some residences recently rebuilt to ancient
standards, while most of the other cubicles were little more than
excavated foundations. Lyn and Jesse had gone on ahead and had once
again run into our scruffy volunteer tourguide. Lyn took me aside to
impress me with that fact that he was very knowlegable, forthcoming,
very interested in sharing information with our ten year old, and,
incidentaly, a bit of a "character". She explained that I
shouldn't worry about the time spent feeding the geese, as it was
just an attempt to get to know him better and to give him a chance to
tell them some stories about the monestary and its history. I joined
them and was instantly taken in by his charm and wealth of knowlege.
Indeeed, he was a wee bit of a character, wearing workmans clothes,
with a scraggly beard (popping off to do groundskeeping chores when
not enthralling us with his historical stories), and in possession of
a melodic but subtle Irish brougue.
As
we walked around the prior courtyard he first told us about the
obvious history, the stuff we had already picked up from the diaramas
inside. He told us about the brothers' time of meditation and showed
us the church. But then he shared his personal fascination about the
layout of the individual living areas (really not much more than
ancient motel rooms) each with its own individual walled in
courtyard. A monk desiring total privacy could have his meals
delivered through an access door in his private gate, and could thus
spend days on end in the company of only his own spiritual thoughts.
Sid stood in the center of an empty foundation and waved his arms
about to build for us a living quarters, pointing out the fireplace,
the bookracks, the sitting chair facing the private garden window. He
talked about the daily pattern of a resident, rising before dawn,
prayer, gardening, reading, prayer, etc. He was facinated (and
eventually so were we) with the fact that each seperate living
quarter had its own working privy. Sid took great pride in showing
how the monks had harnessed a nearby spring to trickle running water
thru actual pipes to the back of each residence and pointed out the
remains of the small opening for the privy door and how the soiled
water would be drained off to the land behind the monestary. This
began to fascinate me too, to consider that this was all done seven
centuries ago!
He
pointed out for us the scratches, mars, and marks on the various
stone blocks as they stood in the remaining ruin walls of the central
cathedral and various outbuildings. We had been seeing these surface
scratches right along, in ruin after ruin, and had simply attributed
them (wrongly) to some kind of valdalism, either recent, centuries
old, or possibly ancient. Sid explained that our guess could not have
been more wrong. Stone mason work was difficult and time consuming in
the era that many of the churches and structures (that currently
stand as ruins) were originally built. Masons traveled from place to
place, working on various construction projects and returning home
seasonally like many workers do even today. Stone masons, it seems,
were paid piece-work; a certain amount per stone laid. Sid explained
how the cutting and fitting of one stone might take a considerable
time, often hours, and require the skill of a trained stone mason.
When finished laying that stone, the last step the mason would take
was to scratch onto the stone his personal mark, like a cowboy's
brand on his cattle, to identify it as his and to recieve payment.
Sure enough, we studied the patterns and looked for repeats. We could
quickly identify one that looked like a star or a tic-tac-toe board
and soon the four of us were all walking around spotting and shouting
'Here's another one!'. What a delightful experience!
Without
surprise, they looked exactly like Manchester and other smaller
industrial cities. It was a hoot to drive by and photograph soccer
pitches for Sheffied United and Sheffield Wednesday (two major teams
for such a small city) and for Newcastle United. We stopped for
dinner at a combination family restaurant and pub, stumbling onto an
outlet for a seemingly new 'chain'. This was a great comfort for us
this night. It was well-lit, family oriented, with simple service and
an easy menu. After such hit-and-miss experience with the
independently owned pubs, this chain outlet offered the very desired
feature of being as 'predicatbile' as a Denny's back home in the
states. By this point in our trip, and with five or more hours
driving ahead of us, this was a great comfort.
We
eventually found our exit, and followed the cartoony map through the
two traffic circles, then out and onto a third circle, then out and
onto a fourth circle and (Ta Da!) the Holiday Inn Express sat before
us. It was well past midnight and we had our fill just dragging in
all the luggage. Stirling would be our last hotel before Manchester,
and we would want to unpack-repack tomorrow night. Lyn and Jesse went
directly to the room while I stayed behind and stacked, loaded, and
pushed the overflowing luggage cart along to the room.
