7th May: Accrington to York to Lancaster

Breakfast was nestled amongst a collection of plastic flowers and scenes depicting English country sports, but the toast was hot, the eggs yellow, and the marmalade suitably sticky. I like the way the English offer marmalade in little jars, and I always want to nick them. I restrained myself and ate it instead. I ordered tea, not having sufficient faith in the landlady’s ability to make coffee. The tea was excellent, so I felt I had made a good choice. Anyway, I could get coffee on the train.

I was glad of the wheels on my suitcases, and tugged them back to the station to take a train to York, to see my good friend Deb. As you can see in the photo, she is very attractive. She said York had a nice little kirk which we could explore it together. When I got off the train I was surprised to find her standing next to me on the platform. I don’t know how she does things like that, but then she has always been quite clever. She bought coffee, I gave her a tee shirt with musical hamsters on it, and she gave me a jar of home-made ‘dam sloe gin jam’. At her request, I also gave her a kilogram of Atomic Coffee beans, there being no decent coffee in England. I don't know how the English get by, honestly, although now I think about it, my brother always drinks tea (he thinks he's English). We headed off into town, dragging the cases behind us, exploring the beautiful narrow streets of York and York Minster (not the streets therein) , before settling in a church yard for a catch up. I suspect the church custodian had taken a fancy to Deb, as he followed us around, and asked us to move from our position under a tree so he could attend to a bird house in its foliage. Of course we weren’t fooled by this – it was clear that he wanted us to move for other possibly nefarious reasons. In due course it all became clear however, when he asked us about Australia, as he had cousins or something here – I forget the details. I always lose interest when people think I am from Australian. Some people just have no class.

York Minster is a bit of a high Gothic sort of kirk – some bits were built in 1220 which is actually before my family arrived in New Zealand, and well before my boss said I could go to the UK, so as you can see, it’s quite old. There are lots of important people buried there and we admired their tombs while perched on a heater and discussed the kinds of things that need to be discussed between friends who have been estranged. The toilets were very good as well, so it was worth the visit.

Deb bought me a wonderful lunch and we sat in the street watching passers-by and talking more. We took photos of each other to prove we had been there, and went to a pub for a gin and beer, and took photos of ourselves in the mirror to show we take an interest in our appearance. She saw me orf in good time to catch my train to Lancashire, and I felt sad to leave her. Deb has been a good friend for many years and I miss her, as do many of my folkie friends. Herumph (raises eyebrows so as not to appear sad).

I like the British trains. They run on time and the seats are comfortable. Also, someone trundles along the aisle with tea and coffee and stuff just like in an English office or hospital. I usually amused myself by writing postcards or transferring the photos on my mobile phone to my PDA, for later downloading on to my laptop. Once I got out my laptop and plugged it in on the train, just to get my money’s worth from the plug. Travel made me dirty and sweaty so I tried to clean up before my outlaws collected me but it’s hard to get clean in a British Rail toilet. At least I didn’t flush in the station.

I was met in Lancaster by Neil’s father, (i.e. Annie’s and Rosie’s grandfather) and his son, my brother-outlaw. I recognised them immediately and it was wonderful to see them after such a long absence, and we hugged enthusiastically. They drove me back to their house at Brookhouse near Lancaster, and we drank tea and talked. As you have probably noticed, this is turning out to be a talking tour of Britain, which is not a bad thing I guess, and more or less everything you would expect of a Gemini. I had not seen them since Annie and Rosie were quite small, and as they are now well over 20, I guess I have not seen them for around 20 years. They looked pretty good to me, and if I looked a lot older, they were too polite to say so. Once when my mother collected me from Christchurch airport after a long stay away, she said ‘oh – I suppose we look older too!’ Neil’s parents are definitely more diplomatic.

6th May: Bristol to Accrington, Lancashire

I was really enjoying my train trips, though I found the booking and ticket retention a bit stressful. My trip to Accrington gave me an opportunity to see the changes in architecture and environment. The beautiful terraced houses I had seen in Bath turned into row upon row of red-roofed terraced houses, which from a distance had quite a depressing look about them, as there were no trees or variation of building style (1st photo). Another change I noticed as I got further North was that the large franchises and chain stores became more obvious. In small towns places like Starbucks and Subway were fairly low key, but regulations seemed less restrictive further north, and more signs appeared everywhere. I gradually realised that English roads were not littered with bill-boards like the New Zealand roads are, which is why they look more attractive. In New Zealand, a car journey is somewhat akin to reading a magazine of advertisements, unless of course one is in Glenorchy, which has few bill-boards. Glenda Fryer and her team tried to tidy up Auckland and remove some of the signs, but the business people complained that no-one would find them, so the signs stayed. It's hard to find the business for the signs now - a sort of wood and trees phenomenon I suppose.

On arrival at Accrington I wandered up and down the main street until I found the tourist information office, which I assumed would advise me on the right place to stay. There were brochures, but no staff, and the brochures sold tours, not advice on accommodation. So I wandered up and down again, asking questions at likely looking places, until I settled on a bed and breakfast called Colney House (2nd photo), opposite 261 Blackburn Road (3rd photo), where my great grandfather, John Lonsdale once lived. He was born in Clayton-leMoors, just down the road, and at the time he was living in Blackburn Road (1881), my great grandmother lived in the Adelphi Hotel, about 10 minutes away by foot. The house I stayed in was apparently built for George IV's mistress, who must have been very fit, and the stairs were steep and narrow, and the building was several stories high. Perhaps that’s why she was so popular with the king, as she must have had lovely muscular legs. Once I had lugged my two heavy bags up the stairs (the landlady had a bad back….) I set out to enjoy my afternoon.

Accrington is a mill town, but the mills seem to have closed. As some of my ancestors were weavers and cotton workers, I wandered around the outside of one or two, wondering if they walked the same streets a century earlier. Many streets had small lanes behind them, similar to those I saw in Vancouver, where Russell and Jane live when they're not on their boat (ref Poulston Antigua blog!). The lanes were dirty and littered with beer cans, bottles, cigarette packets, dried up sludgy stuff, and what seemed to be household rubbish (4th photo). No doubt I was looking at the 2008 version of what my ancestors saw a century ago when they passed this way. I bet my grandmother had to pick up her skirts to keep the hems clean, as washing in those days must have been a real drag – although now I think about it, they did have a servant, so perhaps it wasn’t granny’s drag, but the servant’s. I noticed a sign pointing to Clayton-le-Moors, just a mile or so down the road, so I followed it, but I was getting tired, having already walked several miles. I had come across some churches, but the town being full of Moslems, two were actually up for sale (5th photo, but recently removed for not being interesting enough). I took a photograph as evidence of my trip and observations. I also found the Adelphi Hotel (6th photo) where my great grandmother, Annie Baron lived, in the 1881 census. She was with her half brother and sister, Bridge and Martha Baron, and Bridege's son, Bridge junior. The girl working in the bar didn't know my family. She had studs in her eyebrows and around her face, and her hair was a pretty green, similar to the colour of my brother’s budgerigar, Peter. He’s dead now (Peter, not my brother), this being some 45 years ago. She had sort of Rastafarian hair, and was well decorated with brightly coloured clothes. I asked if I could see upstairs, explaining my claim on the hotel, but she was unimpressed, and refused my request. I walked about the bar a bit, and bought gin for old times’ sake (I bet my ancestors drank gin there). Everything was quite old – a sort of red quilted seating around dark tables that were very sticky. I guess the barmaid was kept busy enough decorating herself, without having to clean the tables as well. I took several photos, including one of her.

The walk to Clayton-le-Moors took me up a hill that had a decent looking pub at the top, so I stopped for a glass of wine, some tacos, and a salad. The Mexican food confused my sense of time and place – it all felt very odd. Except brief conversations with the landlady, the barmaid, and the waiter, all of this was conducted in silence, which allowed my imagination to run freely, which I enjoyed. I found my way to Clayton-le Moors and explored yet another churchyard, hoping for some evidence of my family, but found none. By this time I was well and truly stuffed, so took a bus back to town and returned to Blackburn Road. I took some photos of 261, as well as the Pakistani barber who now worked there. Although I wanted to go upstairs, not being familiar with Pakistani barbers’ habits, I decided not to ask. I was pleased to get to bed.

Preparing to travel

It's hard to believe anyone will actually read this, but I'll put photos up to make it worthwhile. It's mostly for my boss so she knows where I am, honest, but I'm running a few days behind.
In case you manage to read this first, I advise starting at the beginning, particularly as the end hasn't been written yet. And in case you found this by mistake, this is the travel diary of my recent trip from Auckland New Zealand, through Thailand to London, Bristol, Lancashire, York, and up to Forres, Edinburgh, then to Glasgow for a conference, before returning home via Hong Kong. Phew. No wonder my legs hurt.