Lodgings - Impromptu Days Out

Some years ago, I’d guess about forty, I was on my own in Lancaster where a work commitment had gone awry. Instead of packing up and heading home, I decided to spend time looking around, enjoying the sunshine. Lancaster is the first place I properly remember from my childhood with memories I hold close to my heart including the birth of my sister. Our family, at this point just my parents and a three year old me, moved from our Manchester pub to one in Lancaster. I went to nursery then infant school there. At some point, my maternal grandparents left their pub in Sale to move in with my aunt and uncle, also running a pub in Lancaster. Pure nostalgia, but I had hours to please myself.

Leaving the workplace, I headed towards the city centre. Aimlessly wandering, but comfortable amongst the old stone buildings that felt familiar to me, I realised I was on Church Street and started to look out for The Nag’s Head, a special place of my extended family. It remained unchanged so much that I could almost hear the sounds of the Saturday morning street market which always woke me up early when I’d stayed overnight. Someone was handing out leaflets promoting historical walks and places of interest. The Judges’ Lodgings was open to the public and close by. I went to look round.

From Lancashire County Council,

“Nestled below Lancaster Castle, the Judges' Lodgings dates back nearly 400 years on a site that has been at the centre of Lancaster's history for nearly 2000 years. The current house was built around 1625 by Thomas Covell, Keeper of the Castle and famous for locking up the Pendle Witches during the infamous Lancashire Witch Trials. From 1826 the house became a lodgings for the travelling 'Red Judges' of the Assizes Courts. Dressed in their scarlet robes, the Judges decided the fate of murderers, forgers and highwaymen at Lancaster Castle. Today the house is home to beautiful Georgian furniture by Gillows of Lancaster, elegant period rooms and the popular Museum of Childhood.”

It was more fascinating than I expected. Travelling judges were treated like royalty, the lodgings were like a mini palace.

Still nostalgic, I ate my bought lunch in Williamson Park where I used to play after school and on Sunday afternoon family gatherings. I already knew that the pub which had been my home, The County Hotel, was demolished and some soulless building had taken its place near the railway station.

My unexpected Lancaster trail concluded with a visit to Auntie Vi. Not a real Auntie but a family friend from the old days we’d always kept in touch with – she used to look after me a lot when I was little. We drank tea and reminisced in her cosy back living room, where I used to play. Time flies.

Time passed to when I was working at our local infant school. I was attached to Year One. We were having a school trip to The Judges’ Lodgings in Lancaster. I didn’t need asking twice. It was a fabulous visit. The children learnt a lot about bygone times and the ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ lifestyle of the people who used to live or stay in the building. They dressed up as staff or gentry and had lots of fun trying to spin tops and work other old-fashioned toys. I loved every minute.

Apologies for no poem, I had a few lines in my head but nothing came to fruition. Everything has been hectic since I returned from my extended travels yesterday. And tonight I had to go to a football match.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Tracks - We'd Better Make Tracks

It is the moment I dislike the most. Our peaceful time in Scotland, staying in the quiet of a hidden-away lodge has reached an end. The car is packed for home. The rooms of our accommodation  are clean and tidy, we’ve checked and double-checked for anything forgotten and one of us says, ‘We’d better make tracks’.

The fact that we’ll be returning soon is of no consolation when the sadness of leaving has already taken hold.

I’ve been trying to find out where the term ‘making tracks’ originated and it is so frustrating not to discover a definitive answer. All I have found is a reference to early 1800s slang for running away in a hurry and leaving footprints. 

Quote -  “This nineteenth century American colloquialism was recorded by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (1796-1865) in his ‘Sam Slick’ papers, which originally appeared in a Nova Scotia weekly in 1836, as well as several earlier journals…”

I wanted to know why the saying is ‘making tracks’ when ‘following tracks’ seems to make more sense. I hoped to learn something more and I haven’t, so if any reader knows, please share with me.

‘We’d better make tracks’ was my father’s way of bringing a summer picnic to an end on a Sunday tea-time. Pubs were closed between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days. My family would get together and drive in convoy to a suitable destination to spend the afternoon, everyone bringing food to share. We were all based in Lancaster and Morecambe for a while and our outings were Crook O’ Lune, Littledale, Glasson Dock, Heysham and Ingleton Falls. I was aged four or five, the only child and got made a fuss of. Everyone was relaxed, life was simpler, or that’s how it looked to me. No one rushed. There would be glancing at wrist-watches and mutterings about getting back for opening time as thermos flasks and rugs were put away into car boots in a leisurely fashion.

Our first pub was in Manchester, close to Piccadilly railway station. I was too young to remember much about it, but I knew it was the Star and Garter on Fairfield Street and my walk to nursery with my father took us under a railway bridge. On a recent day at Manchester Christmas Markets with my friend, I suggested that we look at the pub, from the outside. Our train was taking us to Piccadilly so we weren’t going out of our way. I’m easily lost in a city without a coastline to guide me, so it was no surprise to find us following Fairfield Street in the wrong direction. We hadn’t gone too far, luckily. We strolled back and eventually reached the pub, took a few photos then went shopping. Later, waiting on Platform 14 for the train home, I was absent-mindedly gazing around when I realised that right in front of me, across the lower level train tracks, stood the Star and Garter. My friend and I laughed. We’d walked for ages looking for that.

Before long, it will be time for rest and recuperation in Dumfries & Galloway. The car will be packed, the house in good hands and I’ll be happy to say, ‘We’d better make tracks.’

 

I found this poem,

 

Flowered Tracks

 

The breeziness of gentle winds, leafs rustle as trees sway
Sunlight rays a partial light, that shine across the bay
Summers warmth an evening sky, are setting on the day
Dusk approaches through the trees, as the daylight goes away

Flowered tracks along the gorge, a gentle mountain breeze
Dusty valleys lead the way, past the old oak trees
Down to flowing waterfalls, the beauty that one sees
Flowered tracks floating beside, are following with ease

Deep inside the canyon walls, the water hits the stream
Shimmers from the waters edge, upon a golden gleam
The beauty of a secret place, waters merged with a sun beam
Is this a true reality, or flowered tracks last dream

Between the hills on golden ponds, lies colours of tracks flowers
Where the rocky crescent forms, and where the sunlight cowers
Moon light shadows visible, only after sunlight hours
The beauty of a litten dusk, the light the moon devours

A wolf howls above the rocks, high upon the glade
One heart beat I can hear, I am feeling so afraid
Full moons light upon my soul, the wolfs cursed life is paid
Wolf's blood bite on flowered tracks, a glistened moonlight trade

Wolfs eyes glare standing alone, no hunters and no packs
Were wolfs fangs on shadows moon, blood seeping through the cracks
A man once stood is now transformed, his humanity life lacks
The werewolf curse is fulfilled, complete on flowered tracks

 

Written by Kirk, from Hello Poetry.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Mountains - Come Out, Let Me See Ya!

Geography and Geology were never my strong points and I didn’t carry the subjects any further than 3^rd Year high school, so forgive my ignorance in only just discovering that there are five basic kinds of mountains.  I’ve been looking on a Primary Homework Help website and read about Fold, Fault-Block, Dome, Volcanic and Plateau mountains, formed when slabs of the earth’s crust crashed into each other. It’s never too late to learn and I’m developing an interest.

 

When visiting the Scottish Highlands, I’ve looked forward to the drive through Glen Coe, in anticipation of seeing Ben Nevis. So far, I’ve been denied this treat as anything taller than the roof of the car has been shrouded by Scotch Mist. I believe the area is beautiful and I hope for a clear day when we head out that way in the summer, though I’ve seen a translation for the meaning of ‘Ben Nevis’ which is ‘head in the clouds’.  In case you’re wondering, Ben Nevis and the mountains surrounding Glen Coe are volcanic.

 

Ben Nevis is not the only mountain to hide from me. Very many years ago, I was based near Grindelwald for a week on the Bernese Oberland trail in Switzerland and never got to see the top of the Eiger as it was constantly obscured by cloud. The film ‘The Eiger Sanction’ was still popular and boosted tourist trade, not that a boost was needed. An excursion to go sightseeing in the Bernese Alps was cut short due to heavy snow and this was late Spring.

 

We took our daughter and her friend to North Wales on holiday when they were both just teenagers.  We were all looking forward to a day out in Snowdonia, especially the mountain railway to the summit of Mount Snowdon which we could all enjoy. We would be on top of the world. It was not to be. The train track was being upgraded or repaired and was out of action. The climb was not suitable for all of us so we chose something else.  The adventurous ones had lots of fun riding the cable cars up and down the Great Orme to Llandudno.

 

 It was Burns’ Night this week, so I’ve chosen something by Rabbie. It starts with mountains before he becomes distracted…

 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains

 

 Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o'yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flie the swift hours o'love.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.

To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!

 

 Robert Burns

 

 

 Thanks for reading, Pam x



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