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.

2nd November 1944 - Harrogate - Leeds

Thursday

Wakened by the sound of a blacksmith working at the back.  Grey-pink dawn, but fine.  Cold.  Felt dreadful.  Had porridge for breakfast, but not much else.  Coffee.  Pleasant room, several good looking Waafs and RAF officers.  Paid 13/6.

Walked across the greens and saw a man riding at a canter on a big bay horse.  Dogs playing and the sun just rising, gold among clouds.  Collected cycle which had stood in front of house all night.  Mrs Soar was decidedly cool.  Phoned Daven Soar to say goodbye.  

Went out on the Leeds Road, up a long bank among good class horses.  Several useful looking cobs in milk floats, greengrocery trolleys etc.

On my right the land rose up in rolling hills, away to Wharfedale and Ilkley Moor beyond, and on the left there were gentle slopes down to the valley of the Nidd.  Long easy down hill run, across Crimple Beck, wide meadows everywhere.  Lots of cows.  Sound of a tractor far off, breaking stubbles.  Could see the brown strips on a distant hill.  Near here is a cattle market, looking lonely and incongruous at such a distance from a town.  Perhaps put there so as to be sufficiently far away not to offend susceptibilities of the habituees of Harrogate.  Signpost indicating Kirby Overblow.  Across the wharfe, to the park wall at Harewood House.  Followed this for the next 3 miles, saw the gaunt picturesque ruins of Harewood Castle, set among trees on a high bank.  (A boy fell from the top the other day, and was killed).  Went through the village, and past the main entrance to the Park, but the house is too far away to be seen.  The heir to this great estate is now a prisoner of war in Germany.

At last the park wall came to an end, and shortly after I crossed the Leeds City Boundary by Alwoodley Gates.  By the time Allerton is reached the signs of a great city are unmistakeable – new housing estates, garages, shops, trams.  Some of the trams are green and some blue.  Most look very modern and runs swiftly and smoothly, along Chapeltown Rd and North Street.

Mile after mile of houses, shops, pubs etc.  It was now half past 12, and people were hurrying home to dinner, crashing along in their clogs.  Every tram was packed, engineers and girls hanging on to the steps and hand rails.  Saw a burnt-out cinema, but no other sign of damage.  Posters on a shop in Hebrew.  A lot of dirty lodging houses and everywhere scurrying crowds, trams and buses.

Cycled by way of New Briggate and Briggate into the main streets of the city through Boar Lane to City Square.  This must once have been quite a noble square, surrounded by the Post Office, tall office buildings, Mill Hill Chapel, and the enormous mass of the Queens Hotel, looking almost white compared with the other buildings.  But now most of the centre is filled with extraordinary ramshackle sheds which serve as waiting rooms for the trams which cross the square in every direction in continuous processions, and these sheds and the ARP shelters quite obscure the statue of the Black Prince.

Enquired of a Police Constable and then went to the Museum in Park Row, and found that half of it had been demolished by a bomb in 1941.  The remainder has been neatly patched, and although space is very restricted the collections are well–laid out, beautifully clean and well labelled.  The natural history gallery is very fine, although many specimens were destroyed in the raid.  Interesting to see the great tiger, whose photograph made such an impression on me 25 years ago in the old illustrated guide which we had at home.  Little archaeological material, but a room of minerals.  Saw Ricketts, Curator, who was very kind.  Told me about the bomb disaster – bomb penetrated main hall, destroyed front half of building and portico.  Nobody was hurt, although the caretaker’s wife and child were in the place at the time and were blown downstairs into the basement.  A great quantity of stuff was recovered, including a rare carved bone pin, Viking period, which was on loan from a church not far from Leeds and a gold Victorian Jubilee medal, although this was damaged.

Ricketts reminded me that he was on the short list for Colchester in 1926, and said how glad he was not to have got the job.  What a difference it would have made to us if he had.  And perhaps to him!  He retires in January and Dr Hodge is coming here from Halifax.  They say he is a very good man.  After the war a new museum is to be built as part of a proposed Civic Centre.

They specialise in “lunchtime concerts” here and the office is hung with signed photos of famous pianists and violinists etc.  Irene Schauer, Yehudi Menuhin.  These concerts are a great attraction.  Congratulated him on the remarkable recovery which his museum has made after bombing and he said that the City Engineer had been most helpful with labour and material.  Talking of museum finances here seemed to carry one into another world.  He appears to control his committee entirely, and reckons to dispose of all normal Committee meetings within 10 minutes – simply reports progress, and that’s that.  He spent over £300 to entertain the Museums Association when they came here, without any control at all.

He spoke of Kirkstall Abbey Museum, and introduced me to Miss Crowther, who is in charge, a middle-aged grey haired Yorkshire woman.  She is daughter of the previous Curator of Leeds.  Decided to stay until tomorrow in order to see Kirkstall.

An official came in from the Town Clerk’s Office, on some matter or other, and casually mentioned “You know my son’s lost?”  “Yes”, said R. “I had heard”.

Parked cycle in station, then went to Golden Lion, Briggate, on the corner of Southgate, and got a single room without any trouble.  Very pleasant place, though noisy from the trams and the railway which passes almost overhead.

Had tea, and then wandered out into the dirty, lighted streets, full of people and traffic, railway horses, brewery horses (as in Scotland, the breweries have only single horse drays, instead of pairs as in southern England).  Went to Coliseum Cinema in Cookridge St. to see “In Our Time”, under the impression that it was an English film.  Found that it was another of these ridiculous Russian things, everyone being incredibly good and noble except those “tinged with the black brush of Nazi-ism”.  However, I was immensely cheered to find that as a second item there was “The Harvest Shall Come” – that delightful film made up in Suffolk a few years ago.  The scenery glorious, the true Suffolk characters, the very authentic accents, the farm work all real and true.  Such a better film, so true, the wretched labourer after his 40 years work saying “Ah, well, things is sure to be better this time”.  Fancy showing this film now, at the very time when financiers and the riff raff of the Government plot to ruin the whole agricultural industry for a second time in less than half a century.  Don't suppose 10 people in the house understood it.

Back to hotel to bed depressed, although better inwardly.

Still horses going home, the lamps on the carts glittering, the shafts painted white.  There are more than 2,000 horses in this city, according to statistics of drivers and stablemen.

1st November 1944 - Knaresborough - Harrogate

Wednesday

Longed for a wash.  Felt rather ill.  Went all over York between 8 and 9 but could not get a wash anywhere.  At last found a “Wash and brush up” in the lavs in the old market place – with a large notice to say “No shaving allowed” – Why?

Minster bells were ringing and 5 or 6 nuns from the Roman Catholic church near the West door hurried across the Close, their white headdresses and black robes fluttering in the cold breeze.

Went to library as soon as it was open, to see morning papers.  Divers over twice yesterday, once in daylight, about 8 o’clock in the morning.  A hotel was hit, and totally destroyed.  Apparently few survivors.  No sign where, but apparently in “E. Anglia”. 

Set off at 10 towards Harrogate, intending to spend the night there.  A pleasant road, and the weather getting better all the time, clouds clearing, and the sun coming through.  Everywhere tractors and horses plough, Women's Land Army working in the potatoes.  Passed about 2 miles north of Marston Moor.  Many large farms along here, with extensive brick built buildings, all in good condition.

Got to Green Hammerton soon after 11, went on by Allerton Park along the Park wall, up the Gt North Rd for half a mile, and then turned towards Knaresborough.  At Goldsborough there is an enormous factory of some sort, quite new, built against the station, some sort of Ministry of Supply place.  I have ancestors from these parts.  The spike of Knaresborough Church stands up well.

Wonderful farming country.  Cattle everywhere.  Along by River Nidd, and up the steep hill into Knaresborough.  Market day, but the little town looked sleepy and decaying.  Several very good houses, 18^th century, in both brick and stone, along the High Street, and York Place, the best a wonderful shop front, with two bow windows and a two-leaf door, with the name “Berry” above it, apparently contemporary with the original.  Now occupied by an ironmonger.  Quite the best shop front of this kind I have seen, as good as Fribourg’s in London.

The market stalls were set out in the cobbled market square – selling old clothes, junk of all sorts, vegetables, books, old pieces of furniture.

Somehow the scene, though animated, seemed curiously dim and rather less than natural size.  Round the corner found the remains of the Castle, large scattered remnants of walls and towers.  Leland said there were “11 or 12 Towres numbered in the Ward of the Castelle.”  The remains of the Keep had a notice attached to say that is was a museum containing “William Conqueror’s Record Chest, Queen Philippa’s ditto, the oldest fire-engine known and other rare curiosities.  Admission 6d.”  Unfortunately the place was shut, thus depriving me of the pleasure of seeing these extraordinarily interesting things.  Place is run by the Council.

Got a decent lunch for 2s in a little “olde worlde” café nearby.  On one wall was an incredibly crude diagrammatic map of Knaresborough with inset drawings of Old Mother Shipton, Queen Philippa etc. the whole very badly done. 

At the bottom of the hill, a signpost indicates “To the Castle and Public Lavatories”.

Suddenly thought of the Rudsdales in this district, and particularly Henry Rudsdale on the mug [an antique Rudsdale family mug], so decided to enquire at the church.  Went down steep hill to the station, across the level-crossing, down in the churchyard.  Found the verger, who said “Rudsdale?  No, never heard the name.  You’d better ask the Vicar.  He is responsible for the Registers, though I’m sure I dont know why this should be so.”

Went to the vicarage right against the churchyard, a huge barrack of a house, with apparently only a back door and no front.  The Vicar was in, a smallish pleasant faced man with a rather hooked nose and bald head.  He took me into a typical vicarage study, lined with books, religious cheap coloured prints on the wall.  Received me courteously, but said he had never heard of Rudsdale.  However, he put on his hat and coat and we went down to the church, and in at the “priest’s door” across the chancel to the vestry.  In some way the Isle of Man was mentioned in conversation, and he remarked “I was born and bred there”.  I spoke about the Manx language, and he said vaguely “Ah yes, it’s a hybrid between Celtic and a – other things” and said the probably not more than 20 or 30 people spoke it at the present day.

In the vestry he produced the Registers for 1825-1835 and we looked through them, - no Rudsdales, but several Ridsdales, of all ages.  Suddenly he seemed to become tired of the search, and said “Oh, well, it was in all probability a mistake – the name was probably Ridsdale after all”, so, seeing there was not much more to be got out of him I left.

And then across the Nidd, up the steep slope on the other side.  The view across the valley with the Railway viaduct and the Castle perched behind reminded me of one of Mrs Mary Benham’s watercolours of this place.  (Suddenly remembered I had not seen the Petrifying Well, or Eugene Aran’s Cave).

It is now “built up” practically all the way from Knaresborough through Starbeck to Harrogate.  Found a call-box just past Harrogate Hospital, and asked the exchange for Daven Soar.  Got him within a few minutes.  He was naturally surprised to recognise my voice, and said his wife and daughter were up in Harrogate now.  However he suggested I should meet him at 5, and we would go to his place to tea.

I then went on into the town, which seemed to be a disappointing place, (perhaps more so because it was early closing day) full of airforce people.  It is very hilly and there seemed to be a large number of imposing buildings, mostly pump-rooms and concert halls, with glass covered verandas here and there, rather like a high class seaside resort.  The place seems well cared for, with gardeners working among the flower beds.  Had an hour to visit, and soon found that although the place abounds with enormous hotels, concert halls, baths, high class dress shops, confections, beauty parlours, the library in Victoria Avenue is not very large or modern, and the art gallery consists of 2 rooms above it, now showing a nice but small collection of textiles, completely unlabelled.  There are a lot of good topographical prints and photos hanging on the stairs, showing the remarkable development of Harrogate during the past century, but few of these are labelled and those which are are not done very well.  There is no other museum in the town which seems quite absurd for a place of this size and character.

Went along West Park Terrace and met Daven.  He was glad to see me, but was worrying and anxious as to where I should sleep.  True I had made no plans, but I had half thought that I might sleep on a couch in his rooms (not knowing of course that Mrs. Soar was there) but his absurd worrying made the whole expedition seem unpleasant, and I wished I had never come.  However, we had tea, and little Jennifer who is really the sweetest girl I have ever met made much of me.  I bought in biscuits, but somehow the party was not going well.

After tea I got 3 or 4 hotel names from Daven and went down to the phone box at the corner to ring them.  As it happened I got a room easily at the first I tried – West Park Hotel.  Just by the phone was a large church with all its windows brightly lighted, the organ peeling forth inside.  Such a strange site to see in these days.

Then Daven and I went off to get a drink, he walking at a tremendous pace, leaving me panting behind.  First we went to a very new pub, somewhere in Otley Rd where he insisted I had 2 pints, which is considerably more than my bladder will conveniently hold.  At 9 we had to rush away, got a bus, and go down to the main part of the town to another pub, in Ripon Road I think, an enormous filthy place, swimming in beer, pools all over the floor, broken glasses everywhere.  Here I had another pint, and I think he had 2.  By this time I was getting very hazy and I can't remember whether we went to one or two more pubs after that.  I only remember great crowds, heat, singing, and pools of beer everywhere.  Dozens of Americans, all much drunker than I.  I have a vague idea that we walked back to his lodgings and that I wanted to sit on the wall and talk.  Then his wife came out, scolding like an angry hen.  Old Daven went indoors like a little boy, just as he used when bullied by his mother years ago.

I found the hotel with much trouble, but I was feeling really bad by this time.  The next thing I remember is waking to find myself lying dressed on the bed, freezing cold.  Next came a hazy recollection of seeing a grandfather clock at 10 to 4am but hope I dreamed this, otherwise I must have wandered downstairs at that hour.  Crawled miserably under the sheets, feeling sick, ill and headache.