9th November 1944 - Maidenhead

Thursday

Dull and grey this morning but fine later.  The WLA girl brought in a rabbit which she had wrested from a stoat.

Great excitement in the press because Hitler did not speak at Munich last night and because the Germans are now claiming to be bombarding London with rockets.  We all know that something has been coming over intermittently since the first week in September, but whether rockets proper or shells from the French coast I am not yet convinced.  Have heard nothing of London lately, and they know nothing here, although only 30 miles off.

This afternoon went over to Maidenhead.  The old familiar road, the “Star”, where Father and my Uncles used to go, “Wethered’s ‘Marlow Ales’” written up, the lovely spire of Shottesbrooke, White Waltham and the stocks.  (I remember the drawing I did in 1918 or was it 1917? – and old Miss Harris told me I was a little liar and had not done it myself).

The aerodrome at White Waltham is enormous, hundreds of ‘craft of all types parked along the road.  Among others saw a small sea-plane, (bi-plane), and several Dakotas.  The rest were quite unknown to me.  Things I have never seen before.  Planes taking off and landing all the time, the noise frightful.  Sorry for the people who live along here, where it was once so quiet.

Cox-Green, the railway bridge, with the familiar expresses rushing down to the west, the houses with bright red roofs and Boyne Hill Church beyond.  Past the wood-yard, across King’s Grove, through the passage under the little railway bridge, feet echoing as they did 25 years ago when Maitland and I used to ride scooters down here.

Went to “Loxley”, rang the bell.  Aunt came to the door – “Well! Boy!  Come on in do,” just as she always did and I knew she would.  She has not changed and does not look a day older.  She spoke of Mother – “poor dear old Dot, I do miss her”.  

Jocelyn came in, quite unchanged, with that curious little girl’s voice, sounding so immature, yet she is now about 28.  She is now really quite good looking, but never pretty and still talks and acts as she did 10 years ago.

We had tea in the old warm kitchen, the big clock from Colchester still ticking on the wall.

About 7 o’clock, as we were talking family chatter in front of the fire, the sirens sounded.  All my old sensations came back, and I could do nothing but say, as steadily as I could, “Well, I’ll just take a look round outside, and let you know if there’s anything about.”

Surprised to find that the street lamps were alight and remained alight during the alarm.  Stars glittered.  It was cold.  Walked down Kings Grove, to the house where they used to live, where I played in the garden as a little child.  A fighter flew over, green and red lights.  What could be more strange than to stand shivering on this hill, where I used to play a quarter of a century ago, waiting to see if some extraordinary projectile should come whizzing out of the east.  No nightmare that I had 25 years ago ever showed me this. Suddenly noticed a light travelling high towards the west, a long way south.  The searchlights waved vaguely towards it, but could not hear any motor, because of the noise of 2 trains on the mainline.  It disappeared and I could not tell whether it was a bomb or a ‘plane.  There were two or three big yellow flashes towards London, but no sound.  All-Clear did not come for at least 25 mins, and I waited in the road until it did.

Aunt said that a diver had fallen in Norfolk Road, not much serious damage, only windows, slates, etc.  During June and July, Aunt and Jocelyn slept downstairs, as so many divers fell in the district, but the all missed the town.  A lot of damage was done at Windsor and Staines.  Lately, since the divers have come in over Essex, there have been hardly any alarms, though one or two have reached the Aylesbury district.

Saw Uncle, who was in bed, and looked very queer, so pale and wizened.  Left at 10.30, Aunt urging me to come again.

Back to Shurlock Row soon after 11.  Saw several “Specials”, and had to creep past them quietly as no rear light.  Can't think why these men don't go to bed.  The sound of singing and shouting in the camp in the Manor Drive.

8th November 1944 - Shurlock Row

Wednesday

Woke to hear the little church clock striking 8, on a dark wet morning.  Margery brought me a cup of tea.  Lay and looked at the ceiling.  How strange to be here again, yet 48 hours ago I had never thought of it.  Photos of Bert and Claude [Margery's brothers] on every wall, on the dressing table, mantelpiece.  Remembrances of summer days long ago, Bert, long faced, Claude very like him but with a moustache, in cricket flannels.

Claude’s beautiful “still lifes” downstairs.  Uncle Jim so hale, and hearty so incredibly spry, quite unbelievable that he is nearly 84.

Rain all day.  The Essex County Standard arrived from Chelmsford relatives – the first real news of Colchester since last September.  How long I have been away, yet it seems only yesterday.  The chief news is “post-war planning”, this time by some extraordinary “Youth Organisation” (Colchester Area Local Youth Committee).  Among the proposals is one that Colchester shall become a ‘tourist centre’, and in order to aid this, special care should be taken to preserve ancient monuments, Georgian houses, etc.

This manifesto is signed by Cr. H.H. Fisher, a man who has not been very conspicuous in the past for his efforts to preserve anything.  I remember some 10 years ago when he attacked Dr Penrose and the Civic Society over the attempts to save the great brick house in Northgate Street.

This evening talking about agriculture with Margery and the WLA girl.  There does not seem to be much ploughing in the neighbourhood – hundreds of acres of grass in all directions.  Margery says the blacksmith shut down not long ago and took a job at the local waterworks pumping station.

The War Agricultural Executive Committee does not seem to carry any weight here – nobody appears to know who the local members or officials are.

Margery was talking about the old Billingbear Estate.  The ruins of the ancient house remain as I saw them 25 years ago but the Park is now occupied by the Army.  She said that when Braybrooke of Audley End sold the place, Uncle Jim bought this house and the village bought the schoolroom to use as a parish hall.

7th November 1944 - Rowton - Shurlock Row

Tuesday

Not a very good night, but got up briskly at 7, as soon as I heard Walker moving about.  Mary hustled off at quarter to 8, to go up to the Castle gardens, and we made quite affectionate farewells.  Left at 8, bitterly cold, the wind still howling out of Wales, and still more moonlight than daylight.  Determined to set foot in Wales, so fought my way against the gales, past dumps of ammo and poison gas to Alberbury, through Loton Park, now full of American army vehicles, through a cutting in red stone, and across a brook into Wales.  Just beyond the Park wall, on the corner of a lane leading towards Wollaston, stands a mighty oak apparently the boundary mark.

I looked over towards the hills, on the left, the Breiddaw, Mocl y Crolfa, and beyond, the highlands of Sir Trefaldwyn, Cirggian village in foreground.  Welshpool was only 9 miles on, and Llanfair Caeremium less than 20 miles away.  Took my pencil and wrote on the concrete below the tree DYMA CYMRU.  CYMRU AM BYTH, [Wales forever!] then turned back into England.  With the wind behind me, sailed along and got to Shrewsbury at 9.15.  Calves lowing in the market, but hardly any stock because of foot and mouth near Wolverhampton.

Went to the Library for an hour.  Still not made up my mind whether to go to Colchester or Shurlock Row.  Found out about trains, one to Reading at 2.15, so on the spur of the moment brought a ticket.  Suddenly realised with a shock that Reading was 4 and a half hours journey away.

Heard a band, and down the hill came the Shrewsbury School OTC behind their band, the officers very obvious schoolmasters.  Much shouting of commands, and they all marched into the station.  Some of the little boys were only as big as their rifles, strutting in their little uniforms.  What a delightful picture for German propaganda!

Went to Post Office, sent a telegram to Margery, and a letter to Captain Folkard, offering either part time work or my resignation.  Felt much better.  Went to Food Office, got ration card and bought sugar, marmalade, etc.  Had lunch.

Train pulled out on time.  Along the familiar line past Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Oxford – as we drew in I heard the great clock strike 6 o’clock.  First feeling of insecurity – blinds on the train windows.  Then down the Thames Valley to Reading, where there were lights. Set out through the cold streets. Much traffic on the road until I got to Twyford.  Far away 2 searchlights waving, and suddenly realised that I am really back in the ‘war zone’.

Turned up the old familiar road, over the Railway, and along the dark lanes where I used to drive on the back of Jerome’s trap at Christmas time 30 years ago.  Fumbled at the signposts and had to take my lamp off to read them.

At last the village street, and the old school house, white in the star light.  Margery gave me a wonderful welcome, and I felt really happy for the first time since I left Scotland. 

The household is now Margery [Eric Rudsdale's cousin], old uncle, tall and hearty and nearly 84, a Women's Land Army girl and a little black cat called Toby.  All the old furniture is there, the coloured lantern in the hall, the photos, the drawings which poor Claude did 35 years ago.  Had supper, and went to bed in the little back room, dead tired.  

The WLA girl works for a vet called Munless, the son of old Charles Munless, the famous hunting man and coachman, who has a little farm down the straight mile.  The old man recently died, and left the son £83,000, so he doesn’t have to worry about much.

6th November 1944 - Alderley-Crewe-Shrewsbury

Monday

Up early, and left at 9.  Lovely sunny morning.  The country looked beautiful, the best time of the autumn.

The road was good and soon made the 8 miles to Holmes Chapel.  Through Brereton Green then turned right towards Sandbach, passed a posse of USA police.

In Sandbach noticed a road sign indicating “To the Ancient Crosses”, and wondering what these could be, followed the direction to the Market Square.  On the far side, are two beautiful Saxon crosses, set side by side on an ancient stone pedestal, their bases made of huge blocks, both of them carved with figure, scrolls, leaf designs etc.

I don't think I have ever been so surprised before.  I have never heard of the crosses, and had no idea that Saxon crosses of such quality existed in situ anywhere in this country.  Both shafts have been repaired, and the actual cross heads are missing, but the remains are certainly one of the most astonishing monuments in this country.  There is no name plate or label of any kind on them.

At the other end of the market place is the War Memorial, in the form of a medieval cross, and the square is surrounded by ancient buildings, timbered and brick, mostly inns, one of which, The Bear, is dated 1634.  This is a fine old black timbered house in the Cheshire style.

I visited the church and an elderly gentlemen walked in so I asked about the crosses.

“Those crosses, sir,” he said “were put up in King Penda’s time, one when he became a Christian and the other when he married.”

He told me to collect a guidebook from the Council Office – “Tell ‘em G. Roscoe sent you”.  Told me he was over 80 and his wife wanted to leave him.  Felt dreadfully sorry for the poor old man.  What on earth could he have done, at more than 80, to make his wife want to leave him.

Called at Council’s Office collected guide, and went on in the direction of Crewe.  Stopped for a glass of cider at the Nags Head at Wheelock, and then on to Crewe, the most incredibly ugly town.  Cycled to the station and got a few sandwiches and coffee.  The usual big crowds, soldiers, civilians, etc.  Bought 2 Penguin “New Writings” paperbacks which I have never seen.

On the line, near Nantwich, saw a magnificent engine, newly painted and polished, called “Duchess of Buccleuch”.  Down to Whitchurch and then at last Shrewsbury and away over the Welsh Bridge through Frankwell, and up onto the Welshpool Road.  Rain coming on hard.  Cycled on longingly, thinking of the Lodge, but with a fear at the back of my mind.  Past Ford, past Crossgates, under the railway, and then onto the Rowton Road.  Dark now, and myself wet through.

Then the cottage, low, redbrick, rain streaming off the roof, and gleams of light coming through cracks in the blinds.  Knocked at the door.  Mary opened it.  I said “Hello,” she said “Hello, it’s you, is it?  Come in.”  Miss Walker was sitting beside the fire, and tea on the table.  They said, “Hullo, where have you come from?”  [Mary Hulbert had been Rudsdale's girlfriend in the early 1930s]

The fire was bright, and I had tea and mutton.  Yet somehow something was lacking.  They bustled about chattering rather peevishly about work and their little private affairs.  Somehow I had hoped they would stop work for an hour or so, but no, an unexpected visitor from far away meant nothing to them.

We had a little talk about farming, but Mary is so irritatingly optimistic and knows nothing about what is going on anyway.

They set up a camp bed in the little room, in a rather grudging manner, and gave me a few blankets and a pillow, so I did not undress.  The rain stopped, and the moon rose far off on the other side of England.

5th November 1944 - Alderley

Sunday

Tremendous gale all night, and this morning began to rain.  Waited without much hope for Daphne but she did not come, as the weather was so terrible.  After lunch the sun came out, though the wind was still strong, tearing great rough clouds over the blue sky.  At last Daphne and a girlfriend arrived on cycles.  Daphne brought me another £2.  And we set off for Alderley Edge.  In the village street, with its dull, ugly shops, we met the local Home-Guard band leading the British Legion, their banner blowing and tearing in the wind, the ranks of bowler hatted bemedalled men trudging behind.  Then came the boy scouts, and the tail end was made up by two platoons of Americans, padding softly in rubber soled shoes, all wearing long overcoats and kid gloves, looking very lost and vague.  Remembrance Sunday.

The Edge -  a great mass of naked rock about 100 feet high or more, where one can stand and look right across the plain towards Manchester.  A grand panorama, though a lot of it covered by houses.  Manchester was just a great smudge of smoke and cloud, and on the E the hills of the Pennine Chain rose up, gleaming in the sunshine.  To the W. were the hills of Wales with the thin grey streaks of rain falling on them.  Looked on them thinking “O Cymn fach, anwyh wlad vi ughadaw”.

Not far from the edge is the remains of an old beacon, like a Tumulus.  I suppose the beacon must be of Napoleon’s time.  (Query – shall we think of 1940 as ‘Hitler’s time’?)

We walked back to Alderley.  Notices on the steep hill – “This hill is very dangerous. There have been many fatal accidents here.”  Then half way down – “This hill is still dangerous”.  The girls would not stop to tea as they had be back at the school.  Daphne promised to come down for a drink after tea, but she didn’t.  Felt slightly disappointed, but spent the evening writing.  Went to bed, and wrote a letter to Daphne enclosing cheque.

4th November 1944 - Manchester

Saturday

Now down to 15/- after fare to Manchester.  Fine, sunny, but thicker fog over Pennines.  2 engines to train.  Incredible scenes – one part, quite near Stalybridge, crofts and little stone walled fields running up like Wales.  Wet mist and smoke everywhere.

Manchester – The Food Office shut.  Disaster.  Tried to call Daphne – wrong number, another disaster.  Tremendous damage – “Old Wellington” Inn revealed – many vacant spaces – plenty of horses – three young men leading rough ginger cob with cloth on him – smashed houses here and there – trams, trolley buses, buses – the great Library is safe – so is the Museum – saw Sayce [the Curator] who was lecturing on “What are the Fairies” so decided to stop – sudden feeling of happiness – must go in Museum.

In the slums saw, in a derelict side street, a crowd of boys making a bonfire in the middle of the road, throwing orange light on the surrounding ruined buildings – Nov: 5 tomorrow.  Everywhere long queues waiting for buses.

Parked and locked cycle in courtyard and went into Museum.  Egyptian collections beautifully arranged against pale blue-grey backgrounds.  Even the glazing-bars and woodwork of the cases painted grey.  Labels very good.

Natural history collections looked clean and properly cared for, a thing such material rarely does.

Noticed there is now a considerable collection of “folk material” or whatever you like to call it.  Remember Sayce was very keen on this when I was here 10 years ago.  Promised to send a good Essex flail.

The lecture was extremely interesting.  Sayce gave the usual stories of Wales, Ireland, England etc, but told us this, that I had never known before, that the natives of S. Africa also believe in ‘fairies’ in the form of small people, miniature reproductions of themselves, and that they regard these creatures as the spirits of their ancestors.  There are similar beliefs among the Arabs.  From this he wishes us to surmise a similar condition in the British Isles, that our fairies are really in the first place ancestral ghosts.  He discounts that they are folk stories of great antiquity relating to primitive pygmies who were driven out by later invaders. All manifestations of fairies, ghosts, etc. he attributes to hallucination.  He made many interesting points, but his theories are by no means watertight in my opinion.

As regards the pygmy theory, we have that interesting fragment of a Castor pot which shows men chasing little dwarfs dressed in hooded cloaks.  My own opinion is that we should distinguish very clearly between fairies and ghosts.  Admittedly many curious creatures are neither one nor the other, but the “little people” cannot I think be considered ghosts, as they are given human attributes – childbirth, etc.

Well attended about 50-60, said to be the usual number.

After the lecture, I spoke to Sayce, who did not of course remember me from 10 years ago, [when Rudsdale had attended a Museums Association training course at Manchester Museum] and we went up into his office.  Met a young man whose name I think is Carrow, from Sussex, who is a collector of watches and watch movements.  He was apparently about to deposit a large collection with Manchester Museum, before going abroad for the Min. of Transport.  I gathered that he was a road transport engineer, and that a number of young men are being compulsorily sent to the Argentine to look after the British-owned railways there, the idea being to pack the companies with British personnel in case of trouble in the near future.  He said he had already been offered one job in South Africa, but had refused it.

He said he had a watch movement by a Colchester maker, and promised to send it on.  Gave my name and the Museum address.   I suppose until my dying day I shall be collecting for Colchester.  Why?

We had a cup of tea (no milk) and sat talking until 6, about museums, collections, exhibitions etc.  Talked about my idea for an agricultural museum in conjunction with Zoological Society.  Sayce has got some sort of ideas himself, but would not reveal exactly what they were.  I told him that an agricultural museum was a very necessary addition in the north, and suggested that with its glorious building, Wythenshawe was ideal – well remember the massive buildings and yards which I saw there.  Sayce had heard of my Royal Show exhibit, and Carrow had seen it.

Dark when we came out, and of course I had no where to go and practically no money – only about 8/- left.  Had intended to ask Sayce to cash a cheque but funked it.  Decided to go on to Wilmslow, to try to find Daphne.  Very dark, wind getting strong, and cycled along grimly on a good main highway, with lights all the way, some gas, some electric.  Went through Withingon, Disbury, Cheadle.  The traffic lights have just had all screens taken off, and the reds greens and yellow flash as big as moons.

At Cheadle called at ‘George and Dragon’ opposite church for a room, but was refused, not because full, but “Because we don't take nobody on Saturdays and Sundays – too busy in the bar.”  The behaviour of innkeepers gets steadily worse.

At last found the beginning of a sizeable village which I found to be Handforth.  Called at the “Bull’s Head” and had a cider, but no room there.  Advised to try “The Café” at bottom of the hill.  Did so, and instantly regretted it, - a very low class boarding house, full of cats (though pleasant cats) a blousy, dirty woman, a filthy man, called “father” and a squally brat.  Much against better judgement booked bed – “separate bed, mind you, though you’ll have to share the room” and left my kit.  Regretted it the moment I got outside.  Went on to Wilmslow and found to amazement that this was no village as I had thought, but a town of 20,000 inhabitants.  First enquired for RC Church.  No, never heard of Daphne Young.  Went next door to police station – everybody very helpful - … After considerable discussion located the school – Lady Denaby – got phone number.  And there was Daphne – Hullo, EJ?  How are you?  Arranged to meet me in half an hour.  Suddenly on spur, phoned Queen’s Hotel, Alderley, and booked a room with no trouble at all.  Then a weary wait in the dark blowy streets, which as far as I could see in the lamplight had no architectural interest whatever.  At last DMY arrives, just as if she was cycling up to the office, and says “Hullo, EJ”.  Went in a noisy pub and had a drink.  Told her what I was doing – trying to get down to Shrewsbury.  Place full of Waafs and Americans, wearing each others hats, a lot of RAF men too.  Got a £1 off Daphne to help.  Then went back to the dreadful café, collected luggage and set off for Alderley.  Got there by 11.15.  Looks very comfortable.

3rd November 1944 - Leeds - Halifax

Friday

Wakened about 6 by the noise of clogs, horses hooves, iron shod wheels and trams.  Looked down into Briggate to see the great lighted trams, packed full, the lamps in the horse lorries and the dark shapes of work people hurrying along in the dark, under a dull grey sky.  Women in clogs and shawls like olden times.  Up at 8, breakfast very fair, but porridge nothing special.  Went along to Library.  Art Gallery closed, and Town Hall across the road, considerably damaged on the east side.

Took tram to Kirkstall, past acres and acres of devastated streets where nothing but the cobbles, kerbs and an occasional pub remain.  Difficult to judge how much of this is war damage and how much is slum clearance.  Apparently been done some time ago, as thick grass grows up between the cobbles and forms quite a mat on the sites of the houses.

Bought paper – News Chronicle.  Lot of stuff about closing aircraft factories in Lancashire, which will throw 10,000 out of work.  Can this be done by American pressure?

The sun was beginning to break through the mists over the River Aire, and when I got to the Abbey it was a huge bluey grey mass standing out against a dark green background, with the gaunt bare limbs of dripping trees all round.  A little old man came up from the bank of the Aire where it was chattering over stones to make a little waterfall.

“Wonderful old place”, he said “Wonderful!” I agreed. “You know”, he went on in a strong Yorkshire accent, “Those old monks knew what they were doing.  Look at those arches!  The thickness of the walls!  The height of the tower!  Part of that tower you know, fell down in 1779 I think it was, or may be 1679, I forget exactly, but I’ve got it all in a little book at home.  Now this here” (pointing to the nearest part of the building) “I’d surmise from my little book that this was the kitchens. Yes, you can see that circle there?  Well, that must be the great vat, and here’s the stone drain, just as it says in the little book.  Wonderful, truly wonderful.”

We went round to the door of the cloisters and into the great quad.  There was nobody except ourselves, no sound but the flapping of pigeons and drip of water.  The silent arches on the far side looped in procession like a stone serpent.  “On top there,” said the little old man pointing, “was the dormitories. They all slept together, just like boys in a school.”

We went into the church, with its huge soaring arches, massive columns, empty east window with the wet trees outside.  Everywhere the water dripped down on to the stones beneath.  The old man slowly took off his shabby hat, and stood quite quiet, until at last he said in a whisper “Wonderful, isn’t it, to think of them old monks worshipping here, all those years ago.  Of course, it wasn’t the same religion quite as ours, so they tell me, but you can't help thinking they must have been good men all the same.”

Going back through the cloister door he noticed how stupid and ignorant fools had carved their initials all over it.  “Now that,” he said, “makes my blood boil.  If I ever caught a person doing that, I’d strike him, I would, I’d really strike him,  it makes you feel you’d like to shut all these places up altogether.”  I agreed.  The door itself has fake antique carving on it, and at the top is the date II52, somewhat in 18^th century style.

“Now,” said the old man.  “I always find it hard to believe that that date is really correct. Don't you think it likely that they made a mistake?”  Said I should think it more than probable, considering that at that date Arabic numerals were not in use.

“Ah,” he said “what were these Arabic numerals like?”

“Why, the same as we use now, those are called ‘Arabic’.  Before about 1490 only Roman numerals were known in England.”

The old fellow looked mildly incredulous, but seemed cheerful that his suspicion of the date was well founded.

Next we went across the main road to the Abbot’s House, now the Museum, and found Miss Crowther there.  She kindly showed me all over the collections, while the old man pottered off delightedly by himself saying “Never been in here before, all this is new to me.”

The collections are good though the cases are somewhat poor both in design and appearance.  Miss C. has done all the labels herself, white ink on black, (which is a rather outmoded method now).  A.G. Wright did an enormous number at Colchester, but in a mass they give an unpleasant appearance in a case).  There are some very good costumes, and they have many more which cannot be shown for want of space.  Several excellent Leghorn bonnets, about 1820.  The house itself is most interesting, being partly the gatehouse to the Abbot’s lodging, with later additions.  Miss C. said it was haunted by ‘friendly ghosts’.  She herself has sometimes seen what she calls “vague shadows” – “I always make a point of saying ‘good morning’ to them.  It only seems polite.”

Had the pleasure of pointing out two things – one that a papier-mache tray, showing the Abbey, which was dated mid 18^th century, did in fact show the scene identical with that shown in a drawing by Nelson, which was dated 1836.  A group of three horses, 2 bay and 1 grey, appear in each.  The second was that for some inscrutable reason 2 donkey shoes (one actually on a hoof!) were labelled as “cattell-shoes”.

The topographical prints and drawings are excellent, and very well labelled.  One is surprised to find so much remaining of old 18^th century Leeds.  Never knew before that the first railway act in the world that was put through parliament was made in respect of a line here in 1746, which crossed two or three public roads.  Leeds ware very fine indeed, said to be the best in existence.

This museum is most popular with Leeds people.

Got a tram back to the city just in time to catch a train from Central Station to Halifax, so had no time for lunch, and bought a bun and a glass of lemonade.

Halifax

Quite the ugliest town I have ever seen.  Got there at 1.30 – filthy streets, beginning to rain, depressing looking houses, depressing people, Post Office simply packed, tried to phone Daphne Young, but got onto wrong place.  Then sent telegram.  Frustrated.  Walked up to Bankfield Museum – (The Curator, Mr Hodge, away in Newcastle, bitter disappointment) – an extraordinary ugly Victorian Mansion, home of Ackroyds.  The collections are nearly all art material and the display is very well done.

The main hall, which is approached by a flight of marble stairs rather like a Hollywood idea of an Italian palace, was set out with an exhibition designed to show how pictures are painted, full of excellent ideas.  There were photo enlargements of works of famous painters, done in such a way as to show each man’s individual style, and I should imagine that the whole show must be most valuable from the point of view of art teachers.

Museum founded in 1886.

From Hull, Hell and Halifax

Good Lord Preserve us.

Here they once had some sort of a guillotine in the 16^th century, like the Edinburgh maiden. 

Excellent is a large weaving section upstairs, showing number of fine early looms etc, and very fine topographical prints and drawings.  Difficult to see why Halifax should be so well drawn.  Very good series of lithographs c.1870.  Wish we had some at Colchester.  Labels good.  They have made the most of a very awkward house and one got the impression that the Curator must be v. able and v. “live”.  Was told that he was in Newcastle at Museums Association Conference.  If only I had known.  Bitter disappointment to me.  Back down hill, over bridge, dirty stream far below, to café very second rate.  Then cinema and saw “Canterbury Tale” good in parts.  Out to find the hideous town a fairyland – lights all over the place, even on the outsides of cinemas.  Have not seen lights on cinemas for 5 years and 2 and a half months.  Leeds 10pm.  Wrote long letter to Father, posted it.  Bright moon, much drunkenness about in the streets.