Last Sunday was forecast to be a rainless day, a rarity in an early spring which has so far been the worst I can remember. Not since the 2018 visitation of ‘the beast from the east’ has there been such a succession of storms, sleet, hail, heavy rain and fierce winds well into April. With pleasant days few and far between of late, we decided to make the most if it and get out and about.
A half hour drive through charming rural west Lancashire took us to Rufford Old Hall, a sixteenth century manor house originally built by Sir Robert Hesketh, illegitimate son but legitimate heir to an estate and title more than seven generations old. The Hesketh family held the title of lords of manor of Rufford from the fifteenth century until 1936, when the Hall and many artefacts and items of furniture were donated to the National Trust.
In 1798 Rufford New Hall was built nearby and became the swankier, modern Hesketh family abode. Directed by Google, we initially pulled up at the New Hall, immediately realising this was not the place we were looking for, but driving into the grounds anyway to see if there was a way through. Two Burberry-clad ladies in posh green wellies stood chatting near to a row of garages and did not look too pleased to see us. It transpired that the New Hall, now luxury apartments, was their home and we were two of many lost visitors who regularly wound up on their very exclusive grounds and that they were ” ****ing sick of it.” We apologised, blamed Google and drove away, though not before being advised to tell “your mates” to get their directions right. Back on the road, we laughed, having been reminded of our place in the world by the very classy, monied folk at the New Hall.
The cobbled courtyard, which became very busy later in the day
National Trust properties tend to have a standard visitor admission fee of £12, which seems quite expensive but on closer consideration is good value for the essential preservation work that’s carried out annually and the generally very positive visitor experience. Though relatively small, Rufford Old Hall was one of the best maintained properties of the many we have visited. We both commented on how airy and clean it smelt and felt, no hint of damp, mildew or dust anywhere.
Entrance to the 19th century gardensThe Great Hall from the gardens
The house had originally been designed to an H plan, but only the Great Hall and East wing (rebuilt in the 18th century as an accommodation block) remain, the west wing having been left to disrepair and eventually demolished.
We made our way through the downstairs rooms where guides were on hand to answer questions (and to make sure nobody was taking forbidden photos). Because photography is only permitted in the Great Hall, I can’t share images of the four or five other ground floor rooms. It was explained that the photography ban was because many of the artefacts and paintings were only on loan to the Trust and, contractually, could not be photographed. The contents of the Great Hall, on the other hand, are the Trust’s property, so visitors are free to snap away.
The framed diagram labels all of the component parts of a suit of armour. Who would have thought each was called something different?Sad and at the same time sinisterChanfron for protecting a horse’s head. Poor horse!
An impressive range of armour and weapons adorned the fireplace wall. The not-so-cosy-looking fireside chairs are solid oak and original to the property, like everything in the room. Signage here is friendly, asking the curious and tactile amongst us to ‘try not to touch’, realising that we may find it hard to resist, though some delicate objects are strictly off limits. Sitting on some of the more robust chairs was also allowed.
Storage cabinet from 1670- made to last!Sideboard with interesting engravings
This serpent imagery recurred in various objects and is a variation on similar fantastical sea-creature imagery from the period that I have seen in other Tudor properties.
Below is the impressive movable screen, a three tonne, ornately engraved wooden room divider. It is never moved now, as it is much too heavy and would probably sustain damage. Deliberate mistakes were made in the design, including a missing finger on the hand of one of the engraved figures, as acknowledgment that only God can create perfection.
One of the volunteers plays the lute for visitors.
The serpent image appears again in this stained glass window. Can you also see the Manx triskelion (three legs), an ancient symbol depicting movement?
Water pumpHorse drinking trough
The gardens at Rufford are small but pretty and well-kept and well worth a stroll around. The Leeds and Liverpool canal runs alongside, offering long and scenic walks and a chance to admire the colourful boats moored along the towpath.
Can’t get more free range than that
Our walk took us past the nearby church and to a friendly little brasserie where we enjoyed afternoon tea before walking slowly back to the car park for the drive home. It felt like spring should feel, and the bluebells nodded in agreement.
Back at the beginning of September on a beautifully bright Sunday I set out with a friend to explore Saddleworth Moor in the South Pennines.
Covering about 5,000 acres, Saddleworth Moor is part of the Peak District National Park, rising to over 400 metres above sea level. Sprawling farmland, elevated expanses of purple heather and bodies of still, calm water stretch for miles in all directions; sheep take comfort in the shade of dry stone walls in late summer fields, or graze high on hillside paths, little more than moving white dots in the distance.
Between 1963 and 1965 Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, otherwise known as the moors murderers, tortured and killed five children and buried four of them within this landscape. Three of the children’s bodies were discovered in 1965, but Keith Bennett, aged 12 when he was killed, remains buried on the moors. Amongst the most notorious in British history, the moors murders cast a dark shadow on the landscape for decades. Brady and Hindley are both dead now, and though not forgotten, the graphic imagery that linked the moors with those horrific events has faded with time.
We had unintentionally coincided our day out with the start of the UK leg of the Tour de France that passed through not only my own home town of Wigan but also the Saddleworth village of Upper Mill, where we stopped off for a very mini boat ride down the Rochdale canal. It’s free, though donations are welcomed, and is staffed by volunteers. We boarded the barge behind the museum and bookshop, just ourselves and a young dad with a toddler.
Even by late morning the day had become uncomfortably hot for being in the car, so a shady interlude beneath a green canopy was welcome as we slowly moved along the water for a couple of hundred metres before turning round and disembarking.
The museum seemed to be a popular attraction, again staffed by volunteers, this time dressed in the style of bygone times. On a less busy day we might have been tempted inside.
Anticipating the appearance of the Tour de France competitors, cycling enthusiasts lined the high street’s pavements, and outside the cafes every available table taken, but we found a spot inside for a refreshing peppermint tea.
I’d read other blogs about Upper Mill and was expecting it to be more quaint and bohemian, though to be fair, we didn’t really venture beyond the crowded main street, so perhaps missed some hidden gems. We finished our tea and a very large slice of cake each, before making our way through the roadside crowds and back to the car.
Typical of the very old and very beautiful stone houses in the villageA warm welcome for the Tour de France
We wound down the windows and had just left the busy little car park when, quick-as-a-flash, blink and you’d miss them, the troupe of lycra-clad cyclists zipped past to the sound of cheering, almost drowned out by the hovering TV helicopter overhead. Needless to say, they were far too fast for me to catch the moment on camera.
Back on the road, we set a course for another of Saddleworth’s villages, Delph. The day was glorious – a perfect picture of verdant English countryside under a clear blue sky – but a bit too warm for driving around for the sake of driving round, so we were glad that Delph was just a few miles away.
Delph was exceptionally quiet in contrast to busy Upper Mill. We found a spot in an almost empty car park at the side of a church and decided on a stroll around the village. Following a path behind the church yard, we passed some allotments and ambled towards some very attractive houses at the side of the river.
Marker shows the height the water reached when the river flooded in July 1872.
What at first seemed like a private access path proved to be another pleasant riverside walk past sloping gardens, beehives and impressive houses.
Residents have generously planted and maintained the side of pathway.
A few other folks meandered along the lane, otherwise Delph appeared sleepy and dreamy in the mid day-sun, the vivid shades of flowers in path-side planters adding to a chocolate box image.
Is this the oldest and loveliest chippy in the world?
We walked a different route back to the car and happened upon a fish and chip shop over two hundred years old that sadly was closed, so no chips for us. Back in the car and back on the winding roads we went, in search of lunch and the next adventure.
A recent episode of Gardeners’ World filmed at the annual RHS Tatton Park show included a few feature pieces on innovative gardening projects in the north west of England. One that got my attention was about a community in the Toxteth area of Liverpool who had transformed the alley behind their terraced houses into a quirky green space. Their little street, in one of Liverpool’s most economically deprived and ethnically diverse areas, also boasts a very special winter garden, an ambitious and stunning design which I just had to see for myself.
So I set off to Liverpool, just 35 minutes from Wigan to Lime Street station on the fast train. On arriving at Lime Street I jumped into a black cab and gave my destination as Cairns Street Winter Garden and was not surprised when the driver told me he’d never heard of it. I duly provided the post code, which he typed into his phone, but which didn’t seem to provide any further enlightenment.
“Can you not find it?”, said I.
“Oh aye, I can find it,” said he, “but are you sure that’s the right address?”
“That’s the address on the website,” I replied, by then feeling a bit foolish.
The cabbie asked if I’d been there before, which I interpreted (unfairly, as it turned out) as an attempt to find out if I knew the route and if he could get away with going the long way round for a higher fare. The reason for his question soon became clear.
Just a few minutes later, having skirted past some familiar landmarks including the Philharmonic Hall and the Metropolitan Cathedral, we pulled into a run down little area and then onto a street that I vaguely recognised from the TV feature.
“Are you sure it’s here? What’s the door number?” enquired my bemused (and apparently a little concerned) driver as we inched down the street, studying the houses, some boarded up, none looking like a winter garden.
Two women were sweeping the pavement in front of the target address, another tidying a planter of geraniums. It was clearly a community effort and, when I caught a glimpse of the glass roof sparkling in the sunlight, I knew I was in the right place. The amused taxi driver acknowledged a ‘learn something new every day’ moment then drove off, leaving me to the attentions of the residents.
Prior to the Gardeners’ World piece, I had heard about the Granby Four Streets project. Four adjoining streets in the Granby area of Toxteth, many of them derelict and a long time unoccupied, had been earmarked for demolition, an eye sore in an area of the city still scarred by the social and economic impact of the 1980s and 90s. Some steadfast residents were determined to stay put, and a strong community spirit prevailed. A change of plan in response to the ever increasing the need for housing in the city, and the recognition of the desire for regeneration, resulted in some of the structurally sound properties being sold off for one pound, subject to terms and conditions, such as a deadline for the renovation to be completed by and proof of having the funds to carry out the work.
A few properties on Cairns Street are still boarded up, though look more like botanical art installations, thanks to the efforts of a few of the residents and their determination to give their street a lift, including painting bricked up windows and doors and placing planters in abandoned gardens.
Two adjoining houses deemed unsuitable for renovation ( the costs would be too high) have been put to an alternative use as a winter garden, an evergreen space for the community – and visitors – to enjoy all year round. Knocked into one space, opened up and with a glass roof installed, the result is stunning.
A few of the many activities hosted at Granby Winter Garden are weekly yoga sessions and ESOL ( English for speakers of other languages) conversation classes. The space is also used for community meetings and on some evenings becomes a music venue: Wednesday night is jazz night.
Beautifully renovated with the original fireplaces and some other features preserved, the Winter Garden – staffed by volunteers – feels homely, cosy and of its age and at the same time modern and new.
The volunteer on duty, a student, told me he preferred working on his laptop surrounded by the plants and trees than in the university library. He asked if I’d seen Gardeners’ World, as it seemed I was not alone in being prompted to visit following the broadcast. I asked him to point me in the direction of the alley garden; better still, he led me to it, out through the back gate. Like many similar spaces in towns and cities with high crime rates, the ‘backs’ here have gated entries and are only accessible to the residents whose homes open onto them. For me, that was through the winter garden.
A charming and very informal ensemble of planters, bits of art and refurbished household objects, the alley provided a lovely walk.
And somewhere for neighbours to sit and chat.
A lady called Rosemary was hard at work in her role as ” Head bottle filler”, ensuring a plentiful supply of water was on hand for the copious and thirsty greenery. We chatted briefly and Rosemary asked if was with the BBC or otherwise in the media, interestingly not the first time I’ve been asked that; perhaps my proper camera rather than my phone, and my curious questions give that impression. Reassured that I wasn’t from the BBC ( the chance would be a fine thing!), Rosemary chatted a bit more about plants before noticing that Paul, one of the co-founders of the alley garden, was outside his gate.
Paul (on the right), one of the co-founders of ‘Alley Pally’
I recognised Paul from the programme and congratulated him on his and his wife Elizabeth’s venture. I asked him about being on Gardeners’ World; he told me he wasn’t a regular viewer but had seen the piece and was happy with it, though his and Elizabeth’s interview had been significantly edited, the original having been several minutes long. Mindful of how long it takes me to water and tend to my own very little garden, I take my hat off to Paul and Elizabeth for their willingness to put in the effort for their neighbours. It’s wonderful that some of those neighbours enthusiastically share the work. Gardens are places for sharing, all the more so in Granby.
If you are interested in watching the feature on Gardeners’ World, you can find it on BBC iplayer, episode 17 (starts 24 minutes in and runs for just short of 8 minutes).
You can read more about the Granby Winter Garden here, including when it is open for visitors:
This post was first published in 2017, but as Manchester Cathedral appears on Lonely Planet’s guide of suggested places to visit in 2023, I have decided to post it again. Cathedrals, by definition, stand the test of time, so I doubt there has been much change since the post was originally written, except that perhaps those gargoyles have a few more stories to tell.
Two of my favourite things are stained glass windows and gargoyles. I decided to spend a quiet hour on a rainy Sunday afternoon in a spot where there are some splendid examples of both.
Manchester Cathedral, or the Cathedral and Collegiate Church of St. Mary, St. Denys and St. George to give it its full title, stands at the north eastern edge of the city, near to Victoria Station and to the border with the city of Salford. Cathedrals are mostly grand imposing buildings, designed to command attention, to make their presence felt; Manchester’s feels like it’s tucked away behind a screen of shops and a mock Tudor pub, its grounds a haven for lunching office workers and, at the weekends, huddles of teenaged goths. World renowned Chetham’s Music School -home of the Cathedral choir -is adjacent.
Ask anybody to tell you what they associate with Manchester and their replies will probably include some of the following: Oasis; New Order; The Hacienda ; premier league football; the Peterloo Massacre; The Smiths; a certain coconut-covered custard tart; ‘Madchester’; ‘The Village’ and, more recently, the northern quarter. The cotton trade, early trades union movements and political activism might also feature……………..and rain. The city is synonymous with it. It’s unlikely that anybody will mention the Cathedral.
Visitors rarely arrive here by accident – unless they take a wrong turn when visiting the Christmas Markets or heading towards Harvey Nicholls . Most would have sought out this almost hidden gem, perhaps pulled by the promise of the gorgeous windows which are – in my opinion – the big attraction. The Cathedral is not a crowd puller and this is to its credit. A trickle of sightseers drifts in and out, leaflets and maps in hand. Admission is free, where the same, sadly, cannot be said for most other British cathedral churches, perhaps an admission – or exploitation – of their change of status from spiritual centres of the community to local visitor attractions.
From the outside it is not possible to appreciate the aesthetic impact of the stained glass windows. Yes, most churches have at least one or two, usually depicting biblical scenes whose subjects have been attributed suitably anglicised features: haloed blond martyrs fail to fend off marauding beasts, and blue-eyed virgins gaze longingly into the distance, hoping to be swept up into the sky by a heavenly wind. We’ve all seen lots of examples, and one is usually much the same as another. Not so in this case.
All having been added during the last 50 years to replace originals destroyed by war time explosions, the stained glass windows of Manchester Cathedral form an intensely colourful folk-art collage. Non- traditional designs, vibrant and engaging, are apt in a city which prides itself on modernity, openness and progression, not to mention diversity.
Remembrance goes hand-in-hand with reconciliation within the design of my favourite ‘fire window’. Situated in the chapel dedicated to the Manchester Regiment, the window designed by Margaret Traherne pays tribute to lives lost. The orange flames represent the blitz, but as fire destroys it also clears the way for new beginnings. The glass used in this window, significantly, was created in Germany. On a sunny day the flames come alive as the light pours through the glass. Today the rain patters against the panes.
The spirit of inclusion and the celebration of the colourful spectrum we find in nature and in all life is evident in this building. Art work depicts the community which the Cathedral serves and welcomes into its fold. This space feels unpretentious and welcoming.
Back outside, look up and you will see the marvellous array of gargoyles and grotesques which adorn the stonework and guttering. The word gargoyle originates from an old French word meaning throat, hence the verb ‘to gargle’. Technically, to qualify as a gargoyle there must be a spout for the purpose of channelling water away from the building. The non-gargling varieties are more accurately described as grotesques or chimeras and were added to places of worship for decorative effect and to ward off evil spirits from the buildings, evil spirits being prevalent in the mediaeval mind-set.
I’ve been fascinated by gargoyles for many years and enjoy photographing them, though I don’t do that as much as I used to. Fantastical in appearance, comical, terrifying, grimacing and gurning, the rows of stony faces tell stories of a world long past. This is the post- industrial north and some are exceptionally grimy and grim. Each one seems to have its own personality and it amuses me to imagine their discussions about the passage of time:
Dragon: “It’s a bit glum for the time of year.”
Beast: ” Yep! Where’s all this rain come from? It’s more like November!”
Dragon: “It reminds me of that washout of a summer we had in 1546. My spout got blocked with moss. It played havoc with my waterworks and no amount of gargling would clear it. I flooded in the end”
Beast: “I remember it well. We all suffered. That rising damp really gets into the mortar! The serpent on the east wall took such a battering by the storms that his forked tongue dropped off. “
Dragon: ” I know, poor sod. You can’t make out his features now. ‘Erosion’, I’ve heard those surveyors call it. We’re all losing our looks. Mine started to go downhill in the 1700s.”
Beast: “I sometimes feel like we’ve been forgotten about. Even the evil spirits don’t come up like they used to back in the day. Health and safety regulations……”
Now we have new cathedrals made of glass and steel, temples to the gods of commerce and celebrity. The nearby football museum rises like a glass obelisk. Across the city, Manchester Hilton looms on the distant grey skyline. The Cathedral will witness other grand designs have their moment and will still look on, sagely, as, in time, they too disappear.
Yesterday, I read that the LonelyPlanet travel guide has proclaimed Manchester to be the cool city to visit in 2023. The nearest city to my home (very slightly closer than Liverpool), I don’t think of Manchester as being particularly exciting or attractive – the city centre at least – though there are locations beyond the bustling centre that are well worth a visit.
It is said that familiarity breeds contempt, which I don’t necessarily agree with, but perhaps I should try looking at Manchester through fresh eyes. Inspired by some of the Lonely Planet recommendations for Manchester day trips and short breaks, I plan to explore more of the city throughout 2023, highlighting some of my favourite places and discovering others, including some lesser-known gems. For once, it seems I am ahead of the trend, having already made my first trip to Manchester in this first week of the year.
There has been an established Jewish community in Manchester since the 1770s, based at first in the commercial district on the northern edge of the city centre, and later expanding further northward, towards Salford and Bury, as the community grew. It continues to grow, being the largest Jewish community outside London, its numbers increasing year-on-year as the cost of living in London makes Manchester a more affordable option. I was surprised to learn that the only other British Jewish community which is still growing is in Gateshead.
Cheetham Hill is a relatively short walk out of the city centre though, as the name suggests, it is actually a hill, so regular readers will not be surprised to learn that I did not walk, opting instead to take a five minute bus ride. The Jewish Museum is on the site of the former Sephardi synagogue, established in 1874 and designed by Jewish architect Edward Salomons to serve the thriving community. The stunning interior design reflects the Moorish architecture and aesthetics of Spain and Portugal where Sephardi Judaism has its roots.
By the 1970s, the Cheetham Hill Jewish community started to move further towards the suburbs and numbers attending the synagogue started to fall. In 1982, planning began to turn the synagogue into the Jewish Museum, a place to capture the history and heritage of Manchester Jewry and to tell the stories of its people. Opening its doors to visitors in 1984, the museum is now a grade 2 listed building. In 2019 the museum temporarily closed to undergo a £6 million capital development including full renovation and restoration. Conservation experts, historic painters and stained glass specialists were all involved in painstakingly researching and restoring the synagogue to its original condition. An extension in a modern Moorish style wonderfully complements the 19th century building.
Booking is recommended, as the museum hosts school parties and other large groups of visitors, but I turned up on a wet Wednesday afternoon when it was quiet. The £6 admission fee includes as many return visits as I like within one year, which is excellent value and which I will be taking advantage of, in order to view the beautiful stained glass in the better light of a sunny day.
The outside wall of the former synagogue meets the sleek clean lines of the new annexe. One of the synagogue windows illuminated by the soft light withinMoorish-style fretwork metal window screen cleverly hides the car park outside
As it was quiet, I was very fortunate to have the volunteer guides almost to myself at certain points in the tour. An informative and enthusiastic lady allowed me time to take photographs (I had thought I might not be allowed, but there was no problem at all) and led me through the exhibition areas of the new building, where there is a lift for any who need it and toilet facilities. My guide explained that the museum had been successful in its bid for National Lottery capital investment because of its unique pitch: to tell the story of Manchester Jews. Where many Jewish museums focus on the holocaust, the diaspora and Zionism and the state of Israel, this space was to be about the narratives, experiences and contributions of Jewish people and communities in this city.
Along one corridor were several display cases housing artefacts of Jewish life in the 19th and early 20th centuries. Photographs showed families and individuals who came to live in Manchester in those years, some of them having recorded their stories for posterity. It was quite moving, listening to voices from the past, relating their experiences of arriving and settling in their new country and in Manchester specifically. The term ‘Landsleit’ refers to when Jews from the same towns and cities in Europe emigrate and set up new communities. Manchester immigrants sought the familiarity and support of those with a common background and language who could help them settle into their new lives. It was bittersweet listening to one old lady describing her efforts to learn English as quickly as possible because she didn’t want to speak German any more. Mancunian voices with hints of accents told tales of arriving by boat in Liverpool, or by train, and making their way to Manchester, grateful to be welcomed by family or friends already here. Another spoke of starting work in a sewing factory, already with some experience of using a machine and eager to become an accomplished seamstress. She refused to make the brews and sweep the floor, insisting that she had come to learn how to “make a coat,” a goal she achieved.
Map showing the synagogues of Greater Manchester, orange still active and green, no longer, though some of the buildings still exist and have been repurposed. Abraham’s Ark: a portable cupboard or ‘ark’, last owned by Abraham Duinkerk, born in London in 1907, his family of Dutch origin. Abraham’s family would have used the ark to store their religious items, such as prayer books and shawls. Jewish Manchester bee
I had never been inside a synagogue before, so was quite excited to enter the older part of the museum. My next volunteer guide, David, took over. Another visitor joined us, coming to the museum as part of a trip to Manchester, possibly or possibly not inspired by Lonely Planet. David explained how the synagogue had come into being, the role it played in the Sephardi community throughout the century it was in use and told us about its layout and design. He was happy to answer our questions and, being a member of the Manchester Jewish community himself, had first hand knowledge to share.
Looking down from the former women’s galleryThe women’s gallery, which covers three sides, would originally have been screenedTorah scrolls in the Ark: there are five, because more than one might have been required for the readings at some special services. I love the Moroccan-style metal cover of the one on the left, though apparently this less ‘breathable’ type of receptacle is not necessarily the best for preserving old parchment. Commandments in Hebrew above the ark; the ornate glass window shows the seven stick menorah and commemorates former Synagogue President, Ezra Altaras, who died in 1913. Another of the 40 stained glass windows that depict biblical scenesCongregants would each have a numbered seat with space underneath to store their prayer books and religious accoutrements, which they wouldn’t have been permitted to carry to the services under Sabbath lawsMemorial to Manchester Jewish soldiers who died in the Great War.The rabbi would have led the service from the lectern, the seats in front set aside for other officials. Design inspired by the Sephardi region
Having thoroughly enjoyed my visit and feeling much better informed about a faith group and culture which has played an important part in Manchester’s history – especially its commerce – I left the museum to a visual treat. Darkness had descended and the building illuminated the streetscape beautifully, a very definite upside to visiting on a short, winter day.
The first bank holiday of 2023 began gloriously sunny and dry as we headed to Quarry Bank Mill. Owned by the National Trust, the property occupies 400 acres of Cheshire countryside along the valley of the river Bollin; it is the second largest National Trust property in the north west of England. The website advertised the grounds as opening at 08:30 with the other parts of the estate following at 10:30. Rolling up at 10:45, we were amazed to find the car park already very busy, mainly given over to families wisely decked out in wellington boots, loading their rucksacks with thermos flasks and snacks before heading off on long walks, many with dogs, around the extensive woodland paths.
One of the defining businesses of the early Industrial Revolution, Quarry Bank Mill was opened in 1784 by industrialist Samuel Greg, whose vision was for a one-stop shop for spinning cotton on an industrial scale. His site incorporated all stages of the process from raw cotton to finished material. Eighteenth century mechanical innovations had transformed the cottage industries of weaving and spinning into big business on a massive scale, which created immense wealth for manufacturers. Richard Arkwright had invented the water frame, which revolutionised the speed of spinning, in his own mills in the 1770s. When Arkwright lost the patent in 1885, other industrialists like Greg were free to install their own frames.
The Quarry Bank complex developed over the decades to include the five-floor mill, apprentice house with kitchen gardens, cottages for adult workers and their families and chapels for them to attend for Sunday worship. In 1834, Greg’s engineers reshaped the river Bollin to power the huge waterwheel inside the mill which ran the machinery. Originally built as a country escape from their home in Manchester, the site included a house for the Greg family, which stands very close to the mill. Mrs. Greg, not keen on the noise and smoke of the city, decided that the family would live permanently on the estate, which resulted in the development of acres of woodland and pleasure gardens for the enjoyment of her children and herself. Unfortunately, the house was closed when we visited, due to staff shortages, but all of the garden areas, woodland and river walks were accessible. We didn’t stray too far as there was a lot to see, opting to explore the wider grounds on a return visit in the summer.
Path leading into the woodland. Robert Hyde Greg, Samuel’s son, later expanded the landscape to include folly bridges and exotic trees. Giant Christmas bauble displayTrees adorned for the season
The Christmas theme extended into the orangery, where cute hand-crafted decorations were on display.
Some of the orangery was given over to more traditional occupants. In the 18thnand 19th centuries, gardeners would have grown pineapples and other exotic fruits to impress the family’s guests.
Records show that the Head Gardener in the Gregs’ day was one William Brough, who started life as an apprentice at the mill. He married and lived with his family in the gardener’s cottage which you can see in one of the above photos, situated behind the tropical greenhouse. Quarry Bank’s archives have evidence of some other former apprentices who made good and were elevated to positions of responsibility on the estate.
Styal, a tiny hamlet prior to the arrival of the mill, was extended several times by Greg, to provide cottages for his workers, two chapels, a school and a shop. As the still small village sits within the boundaries of the estate, it too is owned by the National Trust. All of the properties bar one – number 13 Oak Cottages – is let to tenants, with National Trust employees being prioritised. The waiting list of would-be tenants is long – unsurprisingly – and properties rarely become available. Number 13 is usually open to visitors, but staff shortages meant that, like the Gregs’ house, it was closed at the time of our visit. The village looks idyllic now, but in the mill workers’ day, each cottage could house up to 10 people, sometimes with more in the cellar.
The apprentice house
The majority of the mill employees were child apprentices, 90 of whom were housed at any one time in the apprentice house. Being small, fast and nimble-fingered, children could move quickly beneath the spinning machines, keeping operations running smoothly, except for those occasions when, exhausted during their 12 hour shift, they lost concentration with sometimes horrific results. Like all mills in the years prior to child employment legislation, many children were maimed or even killed whilst at work. Quarry Bank archives holds records of a boy, Thomas Priestly, who lost a finger from his left hand in one of the machines. A court record gives a detailed account, based on Thomas’ testimony after his arrest for absconding from the mill and making his way, with another boy, to the London workhouse from where they had been personally selected by Greg and where their mothers remained. Following his injury, Thomas wanted to see his mum and, impressively, made his way back to the capital and got back into the workhouse where he stayed under the radar for several days before being discovered. He was charged with breaking the terms of his 10 year apprenticeship and returned to Quarry Bank. It says it all that young Thomas preferred the workhouse – the absolute last resort for those fallen on hard times.
After their 12 or 13 hour day in the mill, the children would undertake a range of domestic duties in the house, including tending the cottage garden for the boys and sewing and cleaning for the girls. Life was grim. The house supervisor, a much more severe lady than our tour guide, would have regarded the children as her personal servants, attending to her guests and being at the beck and call of her husband and herself.
This straw-filled bed in the girls’ dormitory would have been shared by two female apprentices between 10 and 21 years of age. The kitchen, where up to 90 children would eat twice a day.The children worked six days a week but would have had a little time to play on Sundays, when they were not walking the 4 mile return journey to church, twice a day, first for the service and later for Sunday school. It’s a wonder they had any energy left for toys.
…. or for learning
Children were recruited from workhouses all over the country or were found in other destitute circumstances. Hand-picked by Greg, they had only to be (or pass for) 10 years old and appear reasonably healthy, in order to be productive. Many did not know their own ages, but that wasn’t a problem as long as they looked right for the part. Indentures surviving from the time show the children’s crosses, signing away their lives for the next 10 years. Their payment: their food and board. A few did well out of it, learning a trade and staying on at Quarry Bank as adults; some of the less fortunate are buried in nearby St. Bartholomew’s church yard.
The mill is still operational today, run by volunteers, and produces cotton fabric which can be purchased from the gift shop by the metre for home sewing projects, and is used to make napkins, toiletry bags and other items which can be purchased.
Three of the mill’s five floors are open to visitors with volunteers on hand to demonstrate the processes and machinery
Floor 3 includes informative displays, highlighting the development and expansion of the textiles industry and acknowledging the human exploitation which contributed to its growth and the vast wealth it created for some.
The day passed so quickly, unfortunately with a substantial chunk wasted queueing for toilets and refreshments, about an hour and forty-five minutes in total spent standing in line. We twice joined the queue for the garden cafe, only to give up after about 20 minutes on each occasion, seeing that there were no seats, inside or out, anyway. Next, we tried the restaurant, eventually reaching the counter after queueing for another 25 minutes, only to find that everything had sold out except for pasties, at £4.50 each, and then waiting again for the food to arrive. My friend opted for the Cornish whilst I was lucky to get the last cheese & onion, or there would have been nothing for me to eat. They were good though, homemade and tasty, if not worth the price tag or the queue. A lady at the next table, who had been lucky enough to get the last bowl of spicy parsnip and apple soup, told us that when she arrived at 11:15, the car park had been full and new arrivals had had to wait for other cars to leave. According to one of the guides, the day’s 3,500 visitors had not been anticipated, perhaps fair enough considering it was January and the weather might well have been miserable. Staff sickness had also played a part. Considering that many are volunteers, I was impressed overall and will definitely be returning.
It was dusk when we left, not having seen everything but having filled the day. We just had time to pop very briefly into one of the little shops but again decided not to join another long queue to buy a drink for the drive home. The sun was sinking over the river, another area we hadn’t had time to explore. We’ll plan our return trip for sometime in the summer, when we’ll definitely be taking a picnic.
The castle overlooking the Dee estuary at Flint was one of the first to be built by the English in Wales. Building started in 1277, during the campaign of English King Edward I against Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last of the great Welsh leaders. Work was completed in 1284. Flint was one of the north Wales ‘iron ring’ of fortresses built by the English to conquer the Welsh. The castle included an unusual design feature, a solitary round ‘Donjon’ tower which stood apart from the rest of the inner ward but still within the outer wall, which is exceptionally thick.
Though only ruins remain, it is possible to get a sense of how substantial and dominating the structure would have appeared as it rose above the Dee estuary, pronouncing the might and supremacy of the English king.
Following directions from the little town of Holywell we pulled up on a very nondescript street with the castle ruins on one side and two council tower blocks and a few houses on the other. A little further ahead was an industrial estate; an interesting juxtaposition. I wondered what the King would have made of it all and hoped that the residents enjoyed and made the most of living in such a scenic beach location that only the very wealthy would be able to afford in many other parts of the UK.
Walking across what was obviously formerly the moat and then up the mound, we encountered another royal personage and a seriously big dog; just as well they were made of metal and both perfectly harmless. I rather liked this art work, depicting King Richard II, Edward I’s great, great grandson, and Mathe, his traitorous hound.
In 1399, Flint Castle was the site of the showdown between the King and Henry Bolinbroke, a contender for the throne, who went on to become King Henry IV. It is reported that the dog, Mathe, abandoned Richard and allied himself with Bolinbroke. Richard interpreted this apparent act of canine treachery as a sign that his reign was at an end, the dog choosing loyalty to crown, not master. Richard conceded defeat and was captured.
Shakespeare immortalised the scene in his play, Richard II:
‘What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too; For do we must what force will have us do
The greyhound maketh you cheer this day as king of England, as ye shall be; and I shall be deposed. The greyhound possesses this knowledge naturally’
There were a few other visitors like us, milling about with cameras and discussing the brick work and the scenery. A couple of benches had been positioned to provide a view over the beach and the estuary. A group of young people climbed the spiral metal staircase within what I assume to be the ‘Donjon’ tower, seeking to be kings of the castle for a few moments. I would have liked the view but not the climb. Several other groups – mainly families with children, picnics, balls and frisbees – cut through the structure to access the freedom of the beach.
Standing the test of time
Who would have thought that a wall could be so beautiful? Diverse in size and shape, colour and texture, some smooth and others eroded to honeycomb, the ancient stones appear as if placed haphazardly in the dense mortar bed. But this was a fortress, built to last, and not in the least haphazard in its design. I wonder if those tower blocks across the road will be there in 800 years’ time.
The holy well of St. Winefride – ‘Santes Gwenffrewi’ in her native language of Welsh – is just outside the eponymously named town of Holywell on the north Wales coast. The natural spring is said to have come forth from the earth in the 7th century, on the exact spot that St. Winefride was murdered and subsequently – and miraculously – brought back to life. In the centuries that followed, up to the present day, pilgrims have visited the shrine to benefit from the healing powers of the holy water. Quite apart from its reputed healing powers, the shrine is a very beautiful place, worth visiting to appreciate its history and character.
There are various tellings of St. Winefride’s story, and as this blog is about my own experiences of visiting places of interest rather than providing a detailed history of those places, I think the very concise version on the shrine’s website offers enough background to provide a context. The full history of the shrine is fascinating and well worth further reading for those who want to know more.
‘Winefride (Gwenfrewi) was the daughter of a local prince named Tewyth and his wife Gwenlo. Her uncle was St. Beuno. One day, around the year 630, Caradoc, a chieftain from Hawarden attempted to seduce Winefride. She ran from him towards the church which had been built by her uncle. Caradoc pursued her and cut off her head. In the place where her head fell, a spring of water came up. St. Beuno came out from the church, took up her head and placed it back on her body. He then prayed and raised her to life. A white scar encircled her neck, witness to her martyrdom. Caradoc sank to the ground and was never seen again. Winefride became a nun and …. joined a community at Gwtherin where she became the Abbess. She died there some 22 years later.
Pilgrimage to St Winefride’s Well has taken place throughout the 1,300 years since St Winefride was restored to life. It is of great historic significance that the crypt was not destroyed during the reformation of the middle ages and that pilgrims continued to come despite the threat of persecution which existed for those practising the Catholic faith.
Pilgrims have come to St Winefride’s Well throughout its history, to seek healing. Records dating back hundreds of years are testimony to the many cures from sickness and infirmity received through the intercession of St Winefride and the stories who have come in thanksgiving for healing for themselves or others.‘
The shrine’s grounds and St. Winefride’s chapel situated above
The entrance or ‘Mynedfa’ in Welsh, leads into a shop/ information centre and very small exhibition centre. The original museum – also on site – is no longer open to the public but still stores a wealth of artefacts and historical documents. Entrance is just £1.
The tiny exhibition/information centre holds a small number of historical objects and offers a detailed history of the site.
The reliquary which is believed to have contained St. Winfride’s bones, the most interesting object in the exhibition centre.
The holy water from the well is piped to a tap for those pilgrims who don’t wish to bathe in the waters but still would like to benefit from its healing powers.
Although the spring is said to date back to around 630, the crypt within which it is enclosed was built in the early 16th century in the Late Perpendicular Gothic style. It is a grade 1 listed building and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
It’s interesting that construction of the crypt is attributed to Margaret Beaufort, grandmother of Henry VIII, and the direct Tudor connection could explain why the site was not destroyed during the Reformation when saints, relics and pilgrimages fell out of favour.
The metal barriers around the outer bathing pool spoiled the effect somewhat, and I felt it was sad that it was judged necessary for them to be there. Perhaps the pool had been used inappropriately in the recent hot weather or, for health & safety reasons, access needed to be carefully controlled and monitored. The area is covered by CCTV and I witnessed the speedy arrival of one of the staff when two young people took the plunge an hour before the final access time of the day, scheduled for 3 pm. Two earlier 30 minute windows are scheduled for 11 am and 1 pm.
The inner pool – the site of the spring, the crypt and a tiny chapel make up the sanctuary. A changing area is connected to the chapel for the convenience of any visitors who wish to bathe in the outer pool.
The chapel’s stained glass window shows St. Winefride and her uncle, St. Beuno, apparently at the site of the holy spring. She appears to be engaged in saying her rosary whilst uncle appears to be making a statement of some importance. Pilgrims’ prayers. The fancy candles are available from the shop.Beautiful candle holderNot sure if this is St. Winefride or the Virgin Mary. I think the latter, due to the crown, though I don’t know the significance of the feather (if that’s what it is)
The inner pool is architecturally splendid and looks quite oriental. It’s a very tranquil place, the spring bubbling continuously and the water absolutely clear.
The wonderful vaulted ceiling hosts some intriguing grotesques
A serpent-tongued royal personage and demon?Looks like the ‘As ny tree cassyn’, the three-legs symbol of the Isle of Man, an ancient symbol also associated with the Mycenaeans and Lycians
The stone columns around the inner pool bear the engravings of pilgrims who have visited over the last 400 years. Some of the older inscriptions are too faded to make out but there are numerous testimonies to the curative powers of the sacred water.
The stone bed of the inner pool is littered with coins. I haven’t read anywhere that such offerings are customary – or welcomed – but neither is there a sign requesting that visitors refrain. Perhaps a member of staff periodically gathers up the offertory. It’s interesting to me that there is the connection to the lore of the wishing well, a merging of religion and folk tradition. A wish or a prayer; it’s a fine line that separates.
The steps down to the inner pool
Whilst having no plan to bathe ourselves, we were content to sit on one of the wooden benches, enjoying the sunny afternoon and the peaceful, contemplative mood and surroundings. Shortly before 3 pm, people started to arrive , in pairs and small groups, some carrying towels and carrier bags. Some went into the changing room whilst others removed outer garments at the side of the pool. I had the impression that some of these were regulars who were focused and well-practised in this ritual. A few seemed less confident or were perhaps more self-conscious and took their time to build up to the immersion. Interestingly – and to my surprise – all were young, late teens to mid 40s. Three young women, seemingly not new to this, went into the water fully clothed. It’s just as well it was a hot day, though perhaps they would have done the same in the cold, their discomfort perhaps part of their petition.
Feeling slightly voyeuristic but completely intrigued, we watched the bathers in the pool. Most completed ‘laps’ of the perimeter, quietly uttering prayers and fingering rosary beads as they waded their way slowly through the chest-high water. Others, including what looked like a teenage boy and his father, took deep breaths before submerging themselves in the pool, emerging seemingly exhilarated. One woman seemed very emotional, which made me feel even more of a voyeur. Having accomplished their goal, some quickly towelled themselves down, returned to their cars and drove away, further adding to the impression that this was not an unusual activity for them. A few, possibly first-timers, remained in the grounds, apparently wanting to soak up more of the positive energy – or just the sunshine.
My visit showed how the well of St. Winefride clearly still has deep spiritual and personal significance in the 21st century; miracles are still real and obtainable to those who believe in them and in the associated rituals. It also made me mindful of the continuum of old beliefs, changing through the ages but essentially the same: sacred water coming up from the earth; springs devoted to the goddess and the divine feminine; wishes and prayers for healing, then as now. Maybe we haven’t changed that much after all.
Turton Tower is a property of mediaeval origin situated between Bolton and Darwen in Lancashire. It’s made up of three distinct and originally separate buildings, the stone tower being the oldest dating back to the 16th century. In later times, the other buildings were added and eventually all three were consolidated, with the newer additions constructed in the older Tudor style for an homogenous and perhaps more grandiose appearance.
In the 1920s, the property was given to the local council for the benefit of the local community and it’s run by a professional, knowledgeable and friendly team of volunteers, on hand to provide guided tours and a wealth of information. The American lady in the reception area/ gift shop revealed that she hailed from Detroit, where a couple of my granddad’s older brothers had emigrated in the 1930s to find work in the Ford car factory. Years ago, when I was seriously into genealogical research, I sourced the documents which outlined their initial passages from Southampton and Liverpool respectively as they set sail for their new lives. I could happily have chatted for longer to find out more about Detroit but more customers arrived and our tour guide invited us to start our exploration.
Look closely at the sizeable front door to spot a much smaller door within, a clever way to prevent ill-intentioned callers from entering unhindered and wielding their swords, possibly like the fine example displayed below.
What old English country house would be compete without a suit of armour or two? A less than discreet design feature allowed for the call of nature to be answered.
Most of the artefacts, whilst totally authentic and in keeping with the various periods of its occupation, do not belong to Turton Tower but are on loan from the Victoria & Albert Museum. There are some splendid examples.
A grand if not very comfy-looking seatornate engraved cabinetEarly 18th century engraved boxA child’s bed engraved with sea creatures and mermaids, themes that can be found in other houses of the same eraSome of the most interesting exhibits were a variety of chairs, includingAn amusing engravingThis exotic looking exampleThis intriguing ‘reading chair’, designed for men to sit facing towards the back, leaning on the arm rests to enhance the reading experience. The back of the chair, at crotch level, contains a little door, obviously essential for reading
All of the rooms were well presented and, perhaps because the exhibits were on loan and carefully chosen, there wasn’t that over-stuffed feel that I’ve encountered at some similar historic houses where much of what was on show seemed superfluous and untidy.
The drawing room with furniture from different erasTop floor of the tower which provided a perfect lookout for approaching enemies, wattle and daub wall section exposed
One of my favourite objects was not one of the oldest but this gorgeous clock which shows the phases and faces of the moon peering out as if from behind the clouds . I’d never seen a clock like it, but our guide, Margaret, remembered her granny owning one and thinks they were probably not uncommon. I would love to see this charming timepiece in working order.
It was time for a cup of tea in the sunshine, so off we went to the little outdoor cafe, to enjoy the fresh air and the daffodils on a perfect spring day.
Last week I travelled to Northwich in Cheshire to visit the Anderton boat lift. Once nicknamed the ‘Cathedral of the Canals’ the lift is a scheduled monument. It was constructed in 1875 to raise freight barges and narrow boats 50 ft from the River Weaver Navigation to the Trent & Mersey Canal and was in use for over a hundred years until its closure in the 1980s. Restored in 2001, it was reopened a year later and is used by visitors and boaters passing through Cheshire and the Midlands.
The lift was designed by Edwin Clark, who had also designed another hydraulic ship lift at Victoria Docks, London. It consists of two wrought iron cassions, or containers, 75ft long, 15ft wide and over 9ft deep, and a superstructure of iron columns with a platform, walkways and a staircase. It is powered by hydraulic pistons. The project was managed by chief engineer Edward Leader Williams and was a joint enterprise between the canal and river companies who were keen to speed up the shipping of locally mined salt and pottery from Staffordshire to markets in the UK and beyond. A series of locks had been considered but rejected as too expensive and inefficient. The lift was relatively cheaper and simpler in design.
Set in pleasant surroundings and with a small waterside cafe, Anderon Boat Lift is quite a nice spot to enjoy an hour or two even for those not interested in its history.
Advance booking was required as is mostly the way these days. We were able to get tickets for the short lift ride but the longer canal and river cruises were already sold out. We decided to go anyway, in the hope that there would be cancellations, but with plans to visit other local places of interest if our optimism proved fruitless (as it did).
We had a bit of time before we were due to be lifted skyward, so we had a look at the small exhibition about the region’s industrial heritage and the role the boat lift played in that. My favourite part of the exhibition was a selection of Victorian arcade games. Apart from being of the lift’s era and also being mechanical, I wasn’t sure what the connection was, but they were fun anyway.
For the price of an old penny I decided to consult Old Mother Shipton, hoping for confirmation that I would soon be setting sail on a river trip, or that I would come into money and not have to return to work this week. Alas, she told me neither of those things, but she did say there would be an embarrassing half hour whilst I had some explaining to do, but that all would turn out well in the end.
With Old Mother Shipton’s words still in my mind, and wondering if something was about to go badly wrong, we headed to the lift for our elevation experience.
Our on-board host gave an interesting talk about the boat lift and its context within the industrial revolution and the region and about the long process of its restoration after being abandoned. If not for the history presentation, the lift ride would have been quick and quite unremarkable: contained within the deep iron cassion troughs with sides higher than the boat, there was no view or sense of moving through the air.
looking up through the roof at the impressive winding machinery aboveThose Victorians built things to last.
As we ascended, a small number of spectators (possibly themselves unable to get tickets to be aboard) observed our emergence from the giant iron frame and gasped in awe. OK, they were not really quite so impressed, but in its early days it would have been quite something to travel in the boat lift.
Social distancing was still being enforced on board, despite it having been abandoned on public transport in July. The boat and river trips were sailing at half capacity, with alternate rows of seats empty. We tried to talk our way onto the longer boat trip, and even counted the passengers boarding and found them to be fewer than the ‘Covid safe’ capacity of 28 (actual capacity 56), but were still not allowed to board. Frustrated and rather vexed, we sulked for a bit and then went to enjoy the scenery on foot.
Welcome to the Beautiful North 