of mice and poets

Wednesday 23 August

Off we three venture again on our now annual magical mystery literary dash up North! This time in search of the Brynmor Jones Library . . .

To view the wonderful Hull City of Culture exhibition on Philip Larkin's life and work - New Eyes Each Year

After a much needed coffee boost, we meet one of the Larkin Toads inside the library

And here we are at last, actually inside what was once Philip Larkin's office, as Chief Librarian of the Brynmor Jones Library at the University of Hull

A highlight was leafing through book after book of copies of his poems and revisions

Finally we reach the exhibition which is really well curated and quite fascinating.  There's a great Guardian review here and one of the many highlights was a series of Super-8 films taken by the library staff themselves larking about (with Larkin)! in short vignettes.

Another interesting article here questioning Larkin's relationship with Hull over the years.

But it was now time to move on and into Hull proper.  
A stunning coffee at Caffeinated - in the lovely renovated Trinity Market - right opposite Holy Trinity Church, recently rebranded as Hull Minster

and more incredible literary associations as we learn that Andrew Marvell was born in Hull and his statue is right outside the old Grammar School he attended.  And here he is with one of his biggest fans!

Some really grand buildings in Hull

and we loved the striking and moving artwork inside the Minster - The Electric Fence by Annabel McCourt which is part of the Hull City of Culture 2017

and the Minster itself - beautifully light, airy and colourful

where we discovered two lovely old Mousey Thompsons

However, it was now onwards and Northwards with a quick peek at the gigantic Beverley Minster

before our upwards climb onto the North Yorkshire Moors and our first heady sniff of purple heather and fresh air

Cue ofcourse a bit of the wonderful Joan Baez

We pause at the top of Sutton Bank, ready for our 1 in 4 drop down into Rosedale Abbey

and here we are at our lovely B&B - Sevenford House

and a very welcome welcoming cuppa!

beautiful gounds

and soon we are off for a walk down the lane for supper at the White Horse Farm Inn which has changed hugely since Mike and I camped nearby in the 70s, but was still friendly and served good beer.
Thursday morning dawns brightly and after a stunning breakfast . . .

. . . we are given a great hiking route from Ian, the owner at Sevenford.  Starting at the phone box in Rosedale East we venture up onto the old iron ore workings railway line

meeting noisy friends en route

and discovering the magnificent old lime kilns dotted around these hillsides

and again a song springs into my head, the wonderful bleak but beautifully haunting Dalesman's Litany sung by Tim Hart and Maddy Prior. I've always loved the bit about Sheffield's furnaces ..

and here are two ex-steelworkers enjoying the fresh air

spied on by a passing hiker - ha ha

and what's this tempting oasis?

a little piece of heaven

in the shape of Maggie's cosy cafe

Dale Head Farm Tea Gardens

High up on the hillside away from it all, with the most fabulous homemade sandwiches, soups and lemon drizzle cake!

but all too soon we were off back to find the car

and hurtle to York (what a magnificent station!) for fond farewells onto the London train

But the quest didn't end here.  The two final muskateers continued on the Andrew Marvell trail to look for Nun Appleton Hall and Bickling Hall, where Marvell was a tutor Fairfax's daughter Mary from 1650-52 and where, during this period, he lived and wrote poems such as Upon Appleton House.  An extract from the poem is shown on this Poetry Foundation webpage if you care to read.
However, this old gate was as far as we could get as there were many private property signs and the present Hall lies close to the River Wharfe. There's a very thorough article on the estate with a great map which might have helped us more on the day had I found it then - you can read more at Historic England, Nun Appleton Hall.
We also used this useful piece from the Andrew Marvell Society to locate Bilbrough, where Marvell wrote "Upon the Hill and Grove at Bilbrough", and found the present Hall and the church, with the Fairfax family graves.

So all in all a wonderful whistlestop two days -  here's to the next adventure!

the black chair

Saturday 4 July 2015

So our last breakfast together and our fond farewells to our amazing hosts Jeff and Alison at Yr Hafan.  It's been the most amazing, happy week and hard to believe it's flown by so fast.
Ending holidays is always sad, but on our journey up to the Wirral from Pembrokeshire, Mike and I experienced an unforgettable afternoon.

We drove up the magnificent coast of West Wales, through the lovely painted village of Aberaeron and up to Aberystwyth just in time for lunch at the trendy Italian deli Agnelli's.  A real gem and fab coffee - the Guardian thinks so too.

But our destination was further north, just outside Trawsfynydd, where we'd arranged to visit Hedd Wyn's birthplace Yr Ysgwrn.  It was such a privilege to visit Yr Ysgwrn, especially before it's restoration which starts this month, and the experience of that afternoon will stay with me forever.

The article that brought us here was by Laura Barton in the Guardian this time last year - worth a read to understand the huge significance of the poet Hedd Wyn and our visit - read here: Hedd Wyn: Poetry that echoes from the First World War

As you'll have read, Hedd Wyn (meaning Blessed Peace) was the pen name of the young Welsh poet, Ellis Humphrey Evans, who grew up on the farm at Yr Ysgwrn, was tragically killed in the first world war aged just 30 and was unable to be at the Eisteddfod in Birkenhead in 1917 to take home the bardic chair which he'd won with his poem Yr Arwr (The Hero).

When we arrived at the farmhouse, the wonderful Gerald Williams, Hedd Wyn's uncle, took us into the kitchen, still exactly as it has ever been, with no electricity or running water.  We shared our visit along with five others, all Welsh and all local and all lovely.  We were then all treated to over 2 hours in this atmospheric house, left exactly as it was for nearly 100 years.  Paper peeled from the beams and time itself stood still.
Gerald, over 88 years of age and with his warm twinkle of the eye and friendly pat on the shoulder, regaled us in Welsh and English with tales of his family life on the farm and the dark room came alive with those past inhabitants.   As our eyes accustomed to the light the surroundings brightened and let in the sunny day from the small farmyard window.

This is the famous black chair, in the parlour.  Hedd Wyn's bardic chair from the National Eisteddfod in Birkenhead, 1917.  Our little group, encouraged by Gerald, read out Hedd Wyn's poem in Welsh and then the different English translations - none of which did justice to the cadence and beauty of the Welsh language.

the entrance hall

the kitchen

Gerald as we said our farewells

The peaceful view from Yr Ysgwrn

across the valley

the memorial in the centre of Trawsfynydd

Hedd Wyn's birthplace, at his grandparents' in Trawsfynydd

Afterwards I found a great poem by Gillian Clarke, the National Poet of Wales, read it here: Eisteddfod of theBlack Chair (for Hedd Wyn, 1887-1917)

And to learn in that poem that Hedd Wyn met Robert Graves - when only a few weeks ago we were standing in Robert Graves' home in Deia, Mallorca . . . . quite overwhelming.

The poet Glyn Edwards captures our own experience perfectly on his visit to meet with Gerald Williams at Yr Ysgwrn in his wonderful poem Yr Ysgwrn: Hedd Wyn's farm which Glyn kindly gave me permission to replicate here

‘I lost the word,’ he says in English,
shrugging in Welsh, winking,
thinking of which artifact he should summon
from a tablecloth chequered in the relics
that rested on Hedd Wyn’s wartime farm.
‘Casting,’ he nods with certainty. ‘Why
is the handle of the cast iron kettle cold
when the base is burning?’
The light limps into the parlour
and skulks those sat in a meagre silhouette.
It is too dark to read the spines of the books by the range,
too quiet to ask why ripped paper sags
and screens the beams. So, the old clock twitches
and the room leans nearer to the sheephaired storyteller
in his flatcap and to tales of his dead uncle,
the white crucifix, the black chair. 

Closer to the bard and the bomb blasts. 

A hundred years ago in a shelter dug down
in some thudding field near Ypres, the man
must have measured how alike these trench trophies
were to the antlers above his mantelpiece;
known the barometer, grim behind mustard glass,
was as foggy as the one on the dresser,
that the uniformed boy cradling himself in sleep
rocked like the chair at the fire
and that the groaning, gathering din
was as inevitable as all his falling stalls, his failing crops.
Here too he could flake the bark from the joists
with his studded boots and see the rains bloat the wood,
could crook his forehead against a strut
like the one supporting his stable and know,
over the parapet, Passchendaele or Trawsfynydd,
he would always be at war. 

‘The handle is cold because the owner left it that way,’
I think but do not say. The question simmers in silence.

Also loved this amazing article in the Wales Art Review: In search of Hedd Wyn by Nicola Ann Roberts - a fascinating account of her visit a couple of years ago and of the history of Hedd Wyn with a moving account of the journey home made by the black chair.

This year we'd also watched the beautiful film Hedd Wyn, but we realise from the Guardian article above and from talking to Gerald, that the family never felt the film was true to Ellis.

So that was our visit - amazing, special and unique.

And it also marks the end of our week adventuring with the awesome eight! If you've only just read this and would like to start at the beginning, then please click here

hasta la vista for now x x x