York has been around since Roman times, when it was one of the principal settlements in Britain. Constantine the Great was declared emperor there in 306, following the death of his father Constantius I during a visit to the city.

With the Romans were gone, York was an obvious attraction for invaders and it became a Viking stronghold in 866 for almost a century until the floridly named Eirik Bloodaxe was ousted by forces from southern England.

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York

Taking the train for a change, we spent a pleasant day out in the ancient city of York

York was barely out of the headlines thereafter in English history, excepting a temporary lull in influence under the Tudors. A great deal of this rich history is still visible today.

The museum from hell (about hell)

York Dungeon stinks, quite literally. As one of those hard-to-categorise hybrids twixt a museum and an “experience”, it revels in the synthesised stench of a plague-plagued, understreet netherworld in which the benighted denizens are members of only two groups: the persecuted and the persecutors.

With delightful tales of buboes, strappado and pilliwinks, a gaggle of young actors – some playing multiple roles, presumably because of the Bank Holiday – characterised bystanders in a colourful history of incarceration, inequality, disease and death.

It beggars belief how the next generation of Hamlets and Ladies Macbeth can tolerate such long hours sans daylight and the authentic-unwashed period costumes without throwing up their arms and crying out a tragic, despairing “what’s my motivation here?”

Somewhat luckier, we the paying customers emerged after 90 minutes with all limbs still attached, pained by sudden sunlight, dying for the loo, killing for a pint.

York Minster

The Minster is the spiritual symbolic office of the Archbishop of York, who also carries the curious title of Primate of England. The present incumbent, funnily enough not a gorilla or chimpanzee, is the thoroughly modern cleric John Sentamu.

York Minster is properly a cathedral in the Gothic style, with architectural roots in the early thirteenth century. It is the second largest of its type in Europe (narrowly surpassed by the stunning cathedral at Köln) and is considered particularly innovative in its details.

In 1984, a couple of weeks after I had turned five years old, the Minster caught fire. I have dim memories of the news footage: an indigo night sky and the flames engulfing the roof of the South Transept.

The damage was substantial and thought to have been caused by lightning. It cost £2.25m and an unprecedentedly grand Blue Peter competition to repair it.

We took a train down to London recently to visit J’s sister.

It turned out to be a rare hot weekend in the midst of this disastrously wet summer.

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Richmond and London

August in sweaty old London, but hot streets and long shadows worked out pretty cool.

Sisters. As if one wasn’t bad enough, when in London, one has to cope with two!

Locations included:

• Kirkby Stephen
• Ullswater
• Kirkstone Pass
• Grinton
• Richmond, North Yorkshire

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Lakes with the Lads

A weekend in the Lake District with friends.

What could be more thrilling than a wet summer’s afternoon in Buxton?

Well, I could think of a few things but there wasn’t much point in doing that as we descended into Buxton. Rain rolled down the hill like a waterfall.

After getting rained off within about ten minutes, we took shelter in a dark restaurant with morose waiting staff.

Later we sat in the car and tried to think of ways to avoid doing this sort of thing in the future.

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Buxton

Hideous weather and dampened spirits: it could only be a British summer!

J and I spent the recent wet Bank Holiday weekend in Eastbourne, visiting Jim Wilding and his son Ashley.

The weather did destroy a lot of good photo opportunities. As soon as we stepped out of the car, we were totally drenched by hard rain and nigh blown away by the crazy coastal winds!

I think we made the best of it in the circumstances.

J and I spent a windy, wet and thoroughly English Bank Holiday weekend at the seaside.

We trekked down south to Eastbourne, the present home of one Jim Wilding (pronounced ‘Woylding’), Esq and his son Ashley Wilding (also pronounced ‘Woylding’).

At least the welcome, if nothing much else, was warm and hospitable.

Around town

When we weren’t in the Wildingmobile, we were getting soaked. It was the stuff of sterling Englishness, three bedraggled adults led by a sprightly boy who seemed completely oblivious to the cold and wet.

Eastbourne Redoubt

The South Coast of England is peppered with Martello towers and those in and around Eastbourne were supplied by the Redoubt, a small cylindrical fortress originally built in the early 19th century to provide coastal defences against a theoretical French invasion. Such an invasion might have been instigated by Napoleon I, whose hunger for new conquests was well-remarked.

In the twentieth century, the Redoubt served as a wartime storage depot and a temporary base for D-Day soldiers. Today it is a military museum.

Town and country

Once the healthy benefits of seaside trips were recognised, Eastbourne thrived and the town became known somewhat famously as the “Empress of Watering Places”. Its wartime role ushered in a more uncertain era. Eastbourne was a major target for German bombing and as a potential invasion landing point, the military importance of the area severely impacted tourism. Since the war, the town has struggled to recover.

West of Eastbourne is Beachy Head. Unofficially the site of the country’s greatest number of suicides, there were 87 recorded fatalities at the chalk headline between 2002 and 2006. Further down the cliffs, the hamlet of Birling Gap suffers from the coastal erosion caused by a mighty sea.

Birling Gap

The fishing cottages at Birling Gap were built in 1878. Some have fallen into the sea since then and it is noticeable that all of the newer buildings in the National Trust-owned hamlet are no more than semi-permanent installations.

The villages

Alfriston might be the British answer to Stepford, Connecticut. The quaint cafes and shops seem made for superficial tourism, but you have to wonder what sort of people really live here, in an English village that’s more preserved than homemade strawberry jam.

Still, the hymn Morning Has Broken was written here, a hint of secularity in the descriptions of earthly beauty.

The Long Man of Wilmington dates from the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Popular rumour suggests that the Man’s manhood was deliberately obscured during restoration in 1874.

The Long Man was fully obscured during World War Two. Apparently he was so visible that the forces were worried that enemy aircraft might use him as a guide. Duly unveiled after the war, he was recently given a haircut in April 2007.

Pevensey

There has been a fortress at Pevensey, or “Anderitum” as the Romans named it, since around 300AD at which time the whole area was mostly marshland. Overrun by Saxons, the fortress was patched up as a means of defence by Harold Earl of Wessex in 1042. According to popular belief, twenty four years later, Harold (by now King of England) was distracted by Norwegian troubles and William the Conqueror’s Normans landed here uncontested.

After a civil war siege a century later, the castle was allowed to pass quietly into history and Pevensey became more famous for smuggling.

Weeverfish

Only one person, in 1927, is known to have died from the sting of a Weever (not ‘Weaver’) fish. Most of the time we get to enjoy these nasty little buggers in a tasty Bouillabaisse.

Farewell, Eastbourne!

And then it was hometime. Chock full of photos and memories, we headed back on the train.

Last week, J and I took a walk around the Northern section of Ladybower Reservoir and Castleton, both in Derbyshire.

Regular readers will remember our visit to Longdendale in February 2007, so this is kind of a sequel.

The Derbyshire reservoirs are a fascinating aspect of the region and these photos are hot off the press.

J and I walked around the Northern section of Ladybower Reservoir. Work started on the reservoir in 1935.

Cutthroat Bridge

“Cutthroat” Bridge is nicknamed after the scene of a murder documented 400 years ago. In a macabre twist, just a few years ago a fresh corpse was found headless in the same spot. Two Sheffield men were later convicted.

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Ladybower and Castleton

Spring in the air and there are worse places to be than the Derbyshire Peaks.

The sunken village of Derwent

All that remains of the village of Derwent today is a scattering of stones. The village was flooded in 1943 along with neighbouring Ashopton.

Graves were exhumed from the village church and moved to Bamford. The last service was held in March 1943.

The spire of the village church could be seen above the surface of the water for some time after the reservoir had filled, a process which took two years.

Castleton and Peveril Castle

Down the road from Ladybower is Castleton, a popular destination for Peak District tourists. Several of the region’s famous caves are readily accessible from the village, such as the Devil’s Arse, the largest natural cave in the United Kingdom. If you were wondering, the epithet originates from the surprising noises emitted from the cavern whenever the water level falls.

Peveril Castle is possibly the most inaccessible estates in English Heritage‘s portfolio. I had no idea I suffered from vertigo until I started climbing up to it!

Peveril is named after William Peverel, a Battle of Hastings veteran who looked after the wild Peak estates for his namesake the Conqueror.

The castle wasn’t really used for defence purposes – its role was purely administrative – but there is one record of a siege there, the result of a spot of royal disagreement.

J and I recently took off for a day and went walking in Longdendale, a valley descending from Dark Peak in a westerly direction down into Greater Manchester.

As one might expect in an area characterised by a juxtaposition of wilderness and massive human endeavour, Longdendale is steeped in history and legend.

Evidence shows that hunters and gatherers existed in the Peak District from 8,000 BC and that the Romans maintained a presence in the area during their occupation of Britain.

Longdendale is recorded as a waste in the Domesday Book.

As commerce grew in later centuries, the area had become a Pennine crossing point for packhorse routes and from the 1840s it was changed forever by the Woodhead tunnels and John Frederick Bateman’s six reservoirs, collectively named the Longdendale Chain.

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Longdendale

A walk around the valley that links Manchester to Sheffield.

We dropped in on Team Mono over in S10 on the way home.

They made us very welcome as their guests. Particularly with regard to the treacle tart.

J and her mother and sister visited Chatsworth House at the weekend.

She took some photos which I’ve included below.

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chatsworth-house

J's pictures from her visit to Chatsworth.

The last time I was in Southport, I thought to myself, was probably 1993.

I did criterium races there over two consecutive years when I was cycling. Both times it was bitterly cold in Victoria Park with the wind coming in off the sea and the course was too narrow.

The first year I finished somewhere near (or off) the back of the field. It was one of the first races I ever did and I hadn’t warmed up properly beforehand. Not having any real racing experience, I didn’t realise that in criteriums you usually go from the gun.

The second year I came third, having contested a dirty sprint among the chase group in which I finished. It was the first race in my best and last racing season. Hard to believe I only did two seasons but studying for school exams had to come first.

After that, beer and girls came first and second respectively. And I was again in the chasing group…

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Southport and Peaks

A good old-fashioned day out in northern England, from coast to hills.

Sometimes, if you’re really sharp, you can make weekends feel like a full week’s holiday. That’s what J and I decided last night, back in the real world at Sheffield’s superlative Pasta Bar after a great weekend.

The Lake District is one of my favourite parts of the United Kingdom, and there ain’t too many of those. J and I met up with Louis and Marcia in Glenridding, a small village beside Ullswater and spent last weekend there.

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Ullswater

A grey afternoon in the Lake District, but thankfully no damp spirits.

Ullswater is just about far enough away, and different enough, to sweep up the ungainly mess of life in the twenty-first century.

An early start, fuelled by pastries and good conversation about relatives, friends and business, makes the M62-M61-M6 jaunt a breeze and J and I had evaded the worst excesses of the holiday traffic with plenty to spare.

Unless you approach the Lake District from the North – from Penrith, for example – Ullswater might not make it onto your itinerary when you’re faced with attractive honeypots such as Ambleside and Windermere. After all, to get to Ullswater you need to negotiate the Kirkstone Pass.

And the Pass, guardian and gateway of the North Lakes and host to the odd cycle race (organised by sadists), is actually one of the natural turnstiles that keeps Ullswater’s crowd levels in check.

That isn’t to say that traffic around the long lake is light. You can sail out to Norfolk Island and still offset your peace with the constant whir from the shoreline road.

Louis y Marcita had crossed the Pass at the beginning of last week, stopping off at Mike & J Towers for coffee and directions early on Monday morning.

Like most comely Dutch folk, Louis is one of those guys who knows how to enjoy nature and Marcia was always surrounded by it in her native Chile.

However, the ubiquitous English summer rain – admittedly much less common this year – threatened to test even the Tentmaster himself. On just one day during the week, fine weather presided over the young couple’s ascent to the unprecedented clear views from the summit of Helvellyn.

It was another damp morning when I arrived at the Gillside camping ground where the Tentmaster had chosen his ground like a keen-nosed bloodhound. Had not Marcia been standing beside the tent, I would have found them with much less ease for lack of mobile coverage and a tent different to the one I expected.

It seemed that Louis’ trusty old canvas effort – the sort of thing that kids brought up on iPods, PSPs and Lycra® would laugh at – had died just before its thirtieth birthday. Muttering about a lack of breathability caused by synthetic polyesters and the other obscure failings of modern fibre technology, Louis brushed his teeth with a frown, looking less like a bloodhound than a huffy Jack Russell.

J and I took a double kayak and Louis y Marcita a Canadian canoe at the Glenridding Sailing Centre. Even in their more cumbersome craft, Team Mono made Team Fincaso look a bit daft as J personally took on the role of repeatedly testing the diameter of our turning circle. Some related readers may well recall this unique function in J’s enormous repertoire of capabilities.

We beached, certain of us gratefully, and began to realise that we were getting sunburned even through the cloud cover that dogged us all day. Impervious to cold, Team Mono bathed in the icy waters of the lake, whilst J and I discussed with Louis the best approach for dealing with staff in subtropical call centres.

All this vigorous exercise could not be countenanced without adequate resort to the consumption of alcohol and once onshore again, we repaired to the Ratchers beer garden where Marcia became quite embarassingly intoxicated after only three hot chocolates.

Undoubtedly, all the exertion of paddling up and down the lake made us all somewhat tired, so we decided to snooze it off – Team Fincaso in their snug ensuite double room just two floors above the garden and Team Mono an uphill bridlepath hike away in their naff synthetic tent.

Up at the Traveller’s Rest that evening, the conversation continued with an eccentric blend of Spanish, English and Louis’ occasional, accidental use of Dutch. The wait for food was over an hour, so we retreated downhill once more to the beer garden.

Louis and J selected a bottle of wine, a Concha Y Toro whose journey to their palates had begun just down the road from Marcia’s house in Chile. I don’t like to mix drinks, so I had to stick to 1664, whose journey probably started somewhere like Burton-on-Trent.

One of the great joys of going on holiday for me is an opportunity to pig out a little on crap television, since normally I don’t watch TV. Unfortunately, the Glenridding Hotel didn’t offer MTV, so I had to make do with WWF on Sky Sports instead. Disappointing.

But isn’t it fascinating, the way none of the wrestling is actually real but all fake? Thousands of fans go to these events, millions watch on telly. Just how many think it’s all real, in a mass delusion exercise that borders on the excesses of those televangelist miracle healing events?

On Sunday, the clouds threatened again but not too seriously. We met up for a spot of brunch at Fellbites, the oddly-named cafe opposite Glenridding’s Tourist Information office. All too soon, it was time to head back to the real world, a world without hot chocolate, kayaks and wrestling.

We said goodbye to Team Mono, who still had their horrid new tent to pack away and set out for home, but not before J had quenched her thirst for ‘outdoorsy’ clothing back over the Pass in Ambleside.

Ullswater, I miss it already!