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March-May 2006

March

The year is flying by! I've done some scribbling, mostly for my own amusement, but no new projects as yet. At the end of next month I leave for the UK, where I'm planning on doing some family research. There are a few family stories that might be useful for a story idea that I have. After the UK, I'm going to Italy for 3 months. I'm looking forward to being 'out of contact' and hope to use the time to do some serious writing. Here in Murphys Creek the drought continues. The grass is brown and dry and my plants look parched. I don't dare water them too often; the dam is empty and underground water levels are dropping. I still see king parrots now and again, but the lorikeets have moved to greener places. There are plenty of snakes around so the kookaburras laugh often.

April

The travel plans are progressing, although not without some drama. A rush trip to Sydney was necessary in order for me to obtain an up-to-date copy of my birth certificate. The British High Commission need it so they can issue me with an Ancestry Visa. I guess that in these days of identity theft, they can't be too careful! Now I'm busy organising my accommodation, and deciding what to pack. I like to travel light so will take only a carry-on and my laptop. We had a little rain here last night, just enough to give us some hope that there will be more. At least I won't have to water the garden this week.

May

I left Australia on 27th April, my 'to-do' list still being ticked off on the morning of my departure. The journey was not as bad as I'd envisaged, although I was seated in with the couples plus babies! A 7 hour coach trip at the end of the flight tested my recuperative powers but I arrived in Blackpool at 4pm on 28th April feeling alert. Why Blackpool? My mother's parents came from there and I wanted to research the family history. But it hasn't been all work.

What have I learned about England so far? It's very green and lush (I'm sooo jealous!), and very crowded. In fact, I think that the island might be sinking under the weight of all these people, buildings, cars and buses! Also, Ii's a very expensive place, with fuel at the equivalent of almost $2.40 per litre.

Blackpool is such an interesting place. There's nothing pretty about it. The houses - most of them holiday flats or boading houses - stand in drunken rows along short streets that lead down to the shore, and the famous promonade. The houses are very similar but some enterprising owners have tarted the front of their homes up with bright paint, reds, yellows and blues, or have erected awnings over their front doors with the name of the dwelling written thereon in a variety of fancy fonts. Lace curtains adorn windows that look down on the grey streets with disdain, genteel ladies who have aged and don't know it. Mixed in with the houses are shops selling all manner of 'cheap' items, and a mix of what are termed 'restaurants' that cater for every taste, from common fish and chips to Italian.

The promonade comes alive at night, especially on the weekends, when the town fills to over- flowing with people from everywhere who have come to experience the discos, the night-clubs, the theatres, or the famous towerballroom. The Blackpool Tower flashes its welcome into my room every Saturday night. I'm living in a tower, on the third floor of a lovely block of flats. There are windows all around and I look down on busy Coronation Street as I sit at my laptop. Drifts of disjointed conversation float up to me and I struggle to decipher the words, the accents are so varied.

This is a very poor area and drugs and the theft that comes with them is an ongoing problem. The police constantly patrol the streets, which makes me feel safe. There are the usual street people, and yobos staggering drunkenly through the streets, singing at the tops of their off-key voices throughout the night. Speaking of nights - they are very short here now. It took me some time to get used to the long twilight. It's never really dark, which is a problem for me. During the day the sky has an overwashed denim look, almost white with rare patches of blue that the bleach missed.

An inability to access the internet from my room and my laptop is the only real problem I've encountered. To check my email, or explore the internet, I have to walk to the local library where I can book a computer terminal for one hour. For someone used to all-day access, it was quite a shock to the system, and I almost needed rehab, but I think I'm over it now. (Because of the time difference, I was able to join my siblings in our weekly chat session, which meant a lot to me.)

I've been to London twice. The first time was to apply for a bank account (much harder to do here than at home) and to pick up my SIM card. London is around 250 miles from Blackpool, a trip at home of around 5 hours. Here it takes 7-8 hours, the roads are so congested. To drive into Greater London one has to pay a 'congestion tax' of 8 pounds. I spent a couple of hours walking the monopoly board, cutting corners and ducking into interesting places along the way. This second time (I'm in London as I write) is to attend the Society of Women Writers and Journalists monthly luncheon. Baroness PD James is to be the keynote speaker; I've long enjoyed her Commander Dalgliesh novels and look forward to hearing her speak.

I return to Blackpool in a couple of days and will leave there for Scotland on Sunday 14th. After some searching, and dithering between hiring and buying, buying and hiring, I bought myself a car. Keep your fingers crossed that I've done the right thing!

Watch for more from me later this month from points north!

Mid May

Blackpool looked vastly different from a car. Once I was able to move out from the coast a little, I discovered some lovely homes, and plenty of gardens. I left there early on 14th and ambled my way north. The English certainly know something about signage-I found my way without ever having to refer to a map-and once away from the cities, the motorways are a great way to travel.

The Lakes district is stunning, and driving through the Cheviot Hills I had a hard time keeping my eyes on the road. The hills soar up towards the sky, and are dotted with sheep, cows and stone huts and walls. Every now and again were fields of pure bright yellow (the rape plant), looking as if some giant housewife had laid her tablecloths out to dry.

I didn't go into Glasgow city - even though it was a Sunday, the traffic was thick - but I did head out to the suburbs, to Bellshill, because that was where Duncan, my late husband and the father of my children was born. He left there when he was eight, but used to talk about a little stream and a bridge he had to cross to get to his school. I didn't find that stream, or the bridge, but took a few photos of the area before moving on.

Perth was a lovely looking place but I decided not to stop there. Time was flying by and I wanted to be closer to my destination before evening. I did stop for a short time in New Scone though. There the streets are narrow and twist every which way. The buildings are of grey stone and it was clear that Scone in NSW was designed after this place.

The road after I left there became narrower, no longer a motorway as I neared Coupar Angus. Here is where my great- great grandparents, supposedly came after leaving Ireland, shortly before emigrating to Australia. It's a small medieval town in rural Strathmire, between Perth and Forfar. The town grew up around an Abbey, and many of the buildings today were built from that Abbey when it was destroyed in the 16th Century.

Coupar Angus was once known as the Jewel of Strathmore but it’s a bit down-at-heel now. The late Queen Mother’s much loved family home – Glamis Castle – is in the area, as is Culloden – site of the defeat of Bonny Prince Charlie and end of the Jacobite Rising.

Unable to find a place to stay in Coupar Angus, I backtracked a couple of miles to Burrelton, to the Park Inn, where I've spent a couple of lovely nights. The days have been very cold, and wet, although the locals have welcomed the rain after their 'recent dry spell', which made me laugh. Everything is so green it would have to be dry for many years before the country experiences anything like our arid conditions.

The Burrelton Park Inn is not an old building by UK standards, but it is by ours. It has been modernised of course, and added to, but it still retains its character. The fireplaces are no longer wood burning, but they are warming, and the surroundings are decorated with tartans and swords. Mine hostess (Claire Gordon) is gracious and accommodating, and she and her staff speak with a pleasing musical lilt that soothes the soul. The food is first class, and the locals I've met in the bar a mix of rough and polished.

I've taken heaps of photos of Coupar Angus and will try to add these to my album (click on the link at the side panel on the front page to access these) but this may not happen for a couple of days. Finding terminals for lengthy sessions on the internet is difficult. I had planned on using wireless broadband but the cost is prohibitive.

Even though I couldn't find any mention of my family in any records here, I have some more background to add to my family story. Now it's onward and upward to Glamis Castle and Forfar, then down to Dundee.

19th May

I never intended for this trip to be 'touristy' but I did promise myself one castle and a couple of tours. Glamis was the castle and I spent a half day exploring it, looking at the exhibition and walking through the magnificient gardens there. I learnt a few things about the Graham family, namely that Elizabeth Graham, daughter of Sir Patrick Graham, married Sir John Lyon in the 1400s. Later, this family joined with the Bowes family, which later produced Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother. Then there was John Graham (Bonnie Dundee), whose castle was not far from Glamis. John Graham, friend of the 3rd Earl of Strathmore, died in battle in 1689, loyal to James II. I always knew there was Royal blood there somewhere!

With my travel plans not written in stone, I changed my mind after Glamis and bypassed Forfar (which from a distance seemed a largish town), driving on down towards Dundee, and so further south to Edinburgh. The town, ten years on from my last visit, was a disappointment; Princes Street is lined with 'made in china' shops. Not wanting to sully the fond memories I have of Edinburgh, I stayed just one night and moved on towards the border.

After the border, I kept as much as possible to minor roads and while it was slower going, the scenery was to die for. The roads wound by and sometimes through quaint villages, where stone cottages clung to the hillsides, or crowded the roadside, front doors opening directly onto the streets. In between the villages the road was bordered by low stone fences, the lush green paddocks filled with black faced sheep. Every now and again a large 'Manor' house appeared, although in these affluent times there are many copies and no longer only only one in every village. Around every bend as another breath-taking view in many shades of green. Wild flowers filled the paddocks and verges, bright red, blue, yellow and white, and sky and land met at a horizon smudged by an artists hand. Probably Constable himself! There were designated parking areas along the road but never one that allowed worthy photo opportunities, Which was lucky really or else I would have been pulling up so often to snap away that it would have taken me weeks to move more than a few miles.

I stopped for lunch in Thirsk, a busy market town. There one has to ask for a parking disk at one of the shops. The disk is a piece of cardboard, with a numbered wheel. The idea is that you dial the 'time' on the wheel, and place the disk in your car. You then have two hours before you have to move on. From Thirsk I drove on down to York, planning to stay for 3 or 4 days. Unfortunately, my visit coincided with York Race Week, which meant that the city was filled to overflowing. I almost gave up but perservered; York is a city I've long wanted to visit, having read a little of its history over the years. It was only thanks to the lovely ladies at the Tourist Centre that I managed to find a bed, at the Cavalier Hotel.

What a wonderful city it is, rich in history, with walls and buildings remaining from Roman, Viking and medieval times. The streets of the old town twist and turn back on themselves, but it's impossible to get lost with the walls to guide you and the Minster towering overhead - an imposing landmark. The inner city is closed to traffic during the day, which makes exploring easy.

York is over 1900 years old and as I walk the cobbled streets, I look at the ancient buildings - most still being used to keep them maintained - and touch the weathered stone and I am awed to realise that so long ago other feet walked here, another's hands touched this same stone, a person long ago dead once lived and worried, worked, laughed and loved - right here! As I walked the walls and wended my way through the narrow streets, I breathed in air that was imbued with a hint of age, musty and dank but spiced with more modern times. My ears caught the echo of marching feet and clanking swords and armour - Roman soldiers marching down the old Roman roads; vikings storming the walls; knights of old jousting in sport or in earnest; and the more domestic sounds of women calling and children playing in the streets. And overlaying all the ringing of the bells.

For a chocaholic like me, York has an added bonus - it's the home of Rowntree. The company was born here and chocolate shops fill the 'snickleways', where top-heavy houses lean towards each other and block out the sky. In York I filled each and every one of my senses and came away replete.

23rd May

My farm Cottage is warm and cosy and I have it for 2 weeks! It's a wonderful place to come back to after a day out sightseeing. I'm not far from Bronte country and lots of other interesting places, historical and otherwise. The farm is down a long driveway (1.5 miles) and all I can see from my window are green green fields, cows, bright flowers, birds, one dog and a cat who has fallen in love with my car. The farmer and his wife are a lovely couple; he's very quiet, shy, a man who obviously loves and nurtures his land and his produce, both animal and vegetable. He dresses in dungarees and wellington boots, is tall and slim, and looks down at the ground when he speaks to me. He drives the largest tractor I've ever seen. His wife, everybody's other, bustles about, making sure I have everything I need. 'If there's anything you need, or anything you want to ask, you'll just knock at the door won't you love,' she said.

I arrived here Saturday night, spent Sunday sorting myself out, and today set off on my first exploration. I visited Nelson and Clitheroe and checked out places inbetween. Again I found myself driving through some of the most scenic spots I've seen in all my years of travel. That's not to say that we don't have wonderful scenery in Australia, it's just so very different, so ordered, so 'English' if you like. During my drive, I found the 'Yorkshire Historical West Riding' stone and plan to go back to take a picture of it, mainly because the area features in my family's history.

When people hear my voice, they ask about Australia, especially about the sun! One group of ladies, in a coffee shop, told me that they can't wait for summer. 'It will come,' they told me. 'But probably only for a couple of hours,' another laughed. They all joked about how, when the sun does come out, they all run out and strip off as much as they can so they can feel it everywhere. They said that regardless of all this rain, they are in drought, although they do realise that the English version of 'dry' is not the same as ours. A man chipped in, saying something that contained lots of 'thees' and owts, but I couldn't really get a handle on what he was saying. Everyone laughed so I followed suit!

I must be getting used to the long dusk because it no longer fazes me that it's still light at 10pm, even though the sky is full of rain heavy clouds. There is a television in the cottage but I don't watch it. All of my favourite shows (Lost, CSI etc) are months behind. I don't even watch the news because they never have anything about the rest of the world, except perhaps a couple of European countries and USA. The newsreaders stand, out in the open, rather than sit behind a desk, which robs them of any mystery - such as 'I wonder what they're wearing behind that desk.'

26th May

A lovely warm and sunny day yesterday (well, as warm as it gets here). I'd spent the previous day 'at home' because of an upset tummy, which I put down to some take-away chicken. All well after a days rest though, so I set off early to track my way to Haworth, to Bronte country.

Again, I stuck to the 'back' roads, which meander all over the place. It takes longer to arrive at any destination, but the trip is well worth the time. Once again, I was travelling through country that takes my breath away; from rolling green hills dotted with sheep and stone buildings, to the wild and desolate moors. Well on my way, I spotted a sign pointing to Haworth Parsonage Museum, so took the turn. I drove for miles, on ever an narrowing road, having to back up whenever a wider vehicle hove into view. I didn't see another sign, and the original one had not indicated how many miles, so I decided it was a mistake, found a spot to turn around, and backtracked. Later, when I evenutally reached Haworth, I learned that if I'd only stayed on that road for another couple of miles I would have saved myself a long trip. Never mind, it was worth it; sometimes getting lost is a good thing.

After a long walk to find change for the parking area ticket (I keep forgetting to carry lots of change with me; no machines in the UK accept notes and they do not give change) I finally made it into the main street of Haworth. Apart from the cars and the people walking around, I might have stepped back in time. The steep and narrow streets in the village proper are still cobbled, and very difficult to walk on. I was told that they were cobbled to help the horses get a good grip, to save them slipping. Apparently it wasn't very successful because in very wet weather many a horse would slip and slide back down the street.

An hour or so of walking and exploring and I was ready for a cuppa, so I popped into a lovely little tea shop (Emma's) and placed my order. Just as the young lady was about to prepare it, a man came in a took her aside. A short time later she came in and announced that she would have to ask us all to leave, that they had 'had a bereavement'. She was very upset and it transpired that she had just been told her mother had died very suddenly. Whoever the man was who came in and broke the dreadful news, he deserved a good shaking. She was all along in the tea shop and he just left her to it. Although we (there was only me and a group of three other ladies in the tea room) offered to help with whatever needed doing, there really wasn't much we could do. She just wanted us out of there so I left and found another place.

'While in Rome' as the saying goes...but I just couldn't come at the Yorkshire puddings (too much fat for my system) so I did the safe thing and settled for vegetable soup with lovely crusty bread. All the 'native' food is very fatty, and loaded with sugar; I generally try to do the right thing, especially after my upset the day before.

The next part of my exploration involved a visit to the church (St. Michael and all Angels) and the Passonage. The church was in the process of being decorated with fresh flowers, in readiness for the flower festival which begins on 26th the ladies told me. It's not the original church, which was demolished in 1879, but the present one incorporates part of the old tower. And the whole Bronte family (except for Anne, who was buried at Scarborough where she died in 1849) is buried in the family vault insde the church. From the church, I moved out into the churchyard, where two of the family servants Tabitha Aykroyd and Martha Brown, are buried.

As an interesting aside, I learned that an inquiry into the insufficient and impure water supply to the village was held by Mr Benjamin Herschel Babbage, Superintening Inspector to Haworth, in 1850. He found many reasons for the impurity of the water, one of which was the village custom of covering the graves with a flat stone, upon which was engraved the details of the person buried there. Most of these stones were laid directly onto the mound of earth covering the grave. This practice, he reported, prevented the access of air to the ground, which in his view (correct as we now know) was necessary for promoting decomposition. The stones also took the place of grasses and shrubs which, if planted there, would tend to absorb the gases evolved during decomposition.

At the time of his report, the churchyard was almost full of graves, 1,344 during the previous 10 years. The graves were also too close together, and at times more than one body was put to one grave. Another problem was the proximity of the graveyard to the dwellings of a great number of the villagers. Since then, the graveyard was extended, and finally no more burials were allowed. A number of trees were also planted.

From the graveyard, I moved up to the Parsonage itself; not through the gate the Brontes would have used - that was closed some time ago, but back out through the church and up the road past the school, where I stopped for awhile. A very nice man there let me take some photos inside, where a room has been set up much as it would have been when the Bronte sisters were teaching there; much of the furniture is original he told me, saying also that they are trying to track down more furniture and equipment.

I finally reached the Parsonage, which is a flat fronted dwelling, with the front door square in the middle, a window over it (on the second floor), and four windows either side - two up and two down. In 1878 a gable wing was added to the side of the original building by the Reverend John Wade, who took Mr Bronte's place as incumbent. This now houses the library and exhibition room, and the museum shop.

The garden, I later learned, is laid out much the same as it was in the Bronte's day - in a square bordered with a path, but it has been planted with shrubs and flowering plants of the period in an effort to recreate an authentic early Victorian setting for the Pasonage. I paid my entry fee (5 pounds), took my brochure and made my way through the house; the museum is run and the house and contents maintained by the Bronte Society.

The Parsonage is a Georgian house, built in 1778 of local stone. The building was presented to the Bronte Society in 1928 by Sir James Roberts, a native of Haworth. I read that most of the furniture belonged to the Brontes and these could all be found in the original Bronte part of the house.

Mr Brontes study is on the right as you enter the hall. This, I read, is where he did much of his parish work. The cottage piano is also here; it belonged to all of his children but apparently it was played mainly by Emily.

I moved to the dining, room, across the hall, where the sisters did much of their work. There was the rocking chair, where Anne used to sit with her feet on the fender, and the sofa on which Emily died. (Emily took a cold while attending the funeral of their brother in 1847. She refused to acknowledge that she was as ill as she was and died of consumption in 1848.) On the table were Charlotte's writing desk and implements. In this house, perhaps even in this room, were penned the novels, Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights. Over the mantlepiece hangs a copy of Richmond's portrait of Charlotte. It was painted after her death and some said that it 'beautified her'. Apparently Charlotte described herself as ugly; by all accounts she was not a conventional beauty, having a square jaw, a broad forehead and a large and prominent nose.

The kitchen, directly behind Mr Bronte's study, has been reconstructed as far as possible my brochure said, pointing out that the room had been substantially altered in 1878. Much of the original furniture has been reintroduced. Emily made the bread each week at the table there, learning German at the same time, her books propped up so she could read as she worked.

The room opposite used to be a store room, entered only from the yard. The ducks used to live here too. In May 1854, Charlotte altered the floor levels, built a fireplace, and put in a new window in order to make a study for her husband-to-be, Mr Nicholls. (They did marry of course, but only had a scant 6 months or so together before Charlotte died, in early preganancy, in 1855).

A staircase at the end of the hall, facing the front door,led up to a landing and turned to the left, taking one up to the second level. Here, on the right, was the servants room. Like Mr Nicholl's study below it, this room was entered originally from the backyard, by an outside stone staircase. Tabitha Aykroyd came to work for the family in 1825 and served them for thirty years. She died in 1855 and is buried beond the garden wall in front of the Parsonage. Martha Brown came to help at the age of ten and kept house until Mr Bronte died.

The next room, at the front of the house, used to be the master bedroom. Here Mrs Bronte died in 1821, leaving her small children to be cared for by her sister, Elizabeth Branwell. Here she taught the girls fine needlework and domestic skills. After her death, this room became Charlottes. In the centre, in a glass case, is a dummy, wearing one of Charlotte's dresses. The room is dim (to protect the contents a sign says) and one can almost believe that Charlotte herself is standing there. She was very tiny, about 4feet 6inches and had very small hands and feet. Childlike was one description that I read. Many of the items that belonged to the sisters - jewellery, glasses, gloves, shoes and so on, are displayed here.

The nursery is the room that belongs to the window directly over the front door. Here, my brochure tells me, the children spent many happy hours playing, reading and writing imaginary adventures for their toy soldiers. Later it probably became Emily's bedroom.

Mr Bronte's bedroom is at the other side of the house, also at the front. He used this room after the death of his wife. Later, he shared it with Branwell. The half tester bed is not the original; it was reproduced from a drawing by Branwell of himself lying asleep in bed. The room behind this was Branwell's studio, so called because it contains examples of his work as an artist.

This brought to an end my journey through the Parsonage. The exhibition room contains 'story boards' depicting the life, times and works of the Brontes. Here too are more of their possessions and samples of their work. I learned that the Bronte parents were also writers, although never as famous as their children would become. Irish born Patrick wrote poetry, and Maria religious tracts. Patricks birth name was Bunty or Punty and he changed it to Bronte. Patrick outlived all his children, dying in 1861 at the age of eighty-four.

Having only seen a little of what is on offer in Haworth and the surrounds, I determined to go back next week. It was 4 o'clock and I needed to get away before getting caught in peak traffic. Without any trouble, I found the way I should have come and proceeded down a very narrow and steep road. Occasionally I met traffic and one of us had to back up. Driving at a snail's pace through a tiny village, I found myself in a bottleneck, with nowhere to go. There was a line of cars in front of me, and another behind. The car directly in front of me was on the wrong side of the road, and parked cars beside me and the line behind me prevented her from moving. There was a truck at the back of my line and if he'd been agreeable and had backed up, we could have solved the problem. But he folded his arms and shook his head and just sat! A kind lady, walking her children home from school came to the rescue, showing a couple of us through her communal driveway and thus back onto the road past the jam. Apparently this is quite a common occurrence; the only solution would be to destroy the old walls, pull down some ancient homes, and widen the road. I for one would rather put up with the inconvenience rather than lose the character of these old villages.

Before I got back to the main road, I came to a turning for Wycoller, near Colne. This was the hall that was the setting for 'Fearndean Manor', in Jane Eyre. I took the turn but was disappointed to discover that the hall no longer exists. But the view was breathtaking and I took a few more snaps!

I finally found the main road but had dallied too long and was caught up in peak traffic. I took turnings indicated by signs and found myself coming off roundabouts to the wrong roads. After going around in frustrating circles for awhile, I finally got my bearings and managed to find my way back to my cottage. All in all, a satisfying day. Now if only I had some work of the Bronte's to read!

Later - I've had a lot of problems trying to email photos to my brother to put up on my page. As I've said before, the only real complaint I have so far about this journey of mine relates to the problems I have in accessing the internet. Local libraries are very helpful, but their members have to come first; I come a poor second and only have limited time at a terminal. Even so, I have endeavoured to send photos via email only to encounter various technical problems. The local library here won't even let me log onto our family chat page! Anyway, as for the photos, I've decided to take the easy option - I'll copy them to disk and mail them to Sydney, and my brother will, I'm sure, be kind enough to upload them for me. (Stephen is the dear brother who designed my web page for me.) So, please bear with us and understand that it may be a couple of weeks before there are many photos in my 'album'.

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