West Yorkshire Calling 2
Dear Team,
Bloody hell! It’s spring already and I haven’t written since the depths of the northern winter, a winter which (you may remember) nearly finished off your brave little correspondent. Fear not, though. I have negotiated what was left of the snow and icy winds and emerged into spring which has brought……. snow and icy winds! Well, a slight exaggeration (but there has been spring snow). Things have warmed up somewhat and I’ve even had the windows of the ‘pod’ (the name chosen by friends for my apartment) open from time to time. In fact, a number of my colleagues have warned me that it got so hot during graduation week last year that people were fainting left, right and centre. I’m not surprised given the mercury was apparently nudging 27!
It’s go go go here, what with Her Maj turning 80 (I sent her footy cards), my beloved Tottenham Hotspurs vying for a place in the European Champions League and one’s collection of page 3 girls growing by the day. I can also now reveal exclusively to you all that I was flown to Rome to do some last minute campaigning for my old buddy Romano Prodi in the recently decided Italian election. You will, of course, be aware that Italy has surged (well, inched) back to the left and the Fascists have been defeated once again by we honest progressives. I insisted on no remuneration for what I saw as an act of international solidarity, although I did pick up a coupla pairs of shoes at a startling discount. All above board.
Speaking of my apartment as I was earlier, there were a few hitches getting in but it has turned out to be the stylish (read Spartan) cubby hole I hoped it would be (see attached photo). My fellow Yorkshire women and men are generally amazed when they find out that they actually know someone who lives right in the middle of Leeds. I, of course, toss it off as no big deal. The occasional all night sirens of shop security alarms and the choruses of hooched up locals declaring their love and/or hatred for each other at the top of the voices most Friday and Saturday nights between about midnight and 2 am notwithstanding, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Rent schment.
It is my melancholy duty to report that since I last wrote I have been to only one sporting event (actually two, but one was the national netball league which, as I'm sure you realise, doesn’t count). This was a superleague clash between the Leeds Rhinos and the Castleford Tigers at Leeds’ homeground, Headingley Stadium (which, as you can see from the attached photo of me and my friend’s son Michael post-hooter, is actually sponsored by my employer). There is a lot to say about English rugby league. First, the atmosphere here absolutely kills going to a game in Australia, I sat in the beautiful old wooden grand stand on the northern side of the ground (clearly they don’t see a problem in having an east-west running ground, perhaps because the sun is such a rare spectator) and lapped up the singing and drumming and raw passion of the fans. The passion comes partly, I suppose, from the regionalism. Reading the newspapers and listening to the radio you also realise something which some of my countrymen and women may find surprising; sport matters to people in England in a way Australians will never understand. It doesn’t matter to everyone, of course, but to those who care, it matters a lot. You can hear it in the voices. Perhaps it comes also from the folklore about England inventing modern sport. Who knows.
The game itself was very one sided (something which didn’t diminish the enthusiasm of either sets of supporters) and there was a startling difference in the size of the players; the mungos (technical name for rugby league players in general) from Leeds (a perennial power in the competition) dwarfed the Castleford (recently promoted from the second division) blokes. Men vs boys stuff it was. The tune: 68-14 to the home team.
On a less athletic note, I have been to visit the village of Saltaire. Really now a suburb of Bradford. Saltaire was established in the 1850s by Titus Salt, an industrialist who became known for his relative generosity towards the local proletariats. He built the lucky souls who worked in his wool mill larger than normal houses which were unusually well heated and close to the mill (see attached photo of ‘t mill, now converted into an art gallery, restaurants and offices. And bloody hell! Doesn’t the world need a few more of them!).
He even built a covered walkway connecting the houses to ‘t mill so they didn’t have to get wet. The village is a world heritage site and is also home to a fabby little neo-classical Non-conformist church which just happens to be one of the 1000 churches described in my favourite book, ‘England’s 1000 Best Churches’. The church is interesting for a number of reasons (see attached photo of lovely entrance portico and tower) but my favourite was the small raised platform (or, as the bloke in the book calls it, plinth) that the pews sit on, presumably to allow for under floor heating. I had a great afternoon sniffing the history and went home smug in the knowledge that I only have 999 more churches to see.
While on the subject of places of worship, it would be remiss not to mention one’s pilgrimage to Kirkstall Abbey, a ruined Cistercian monk hang out built in the mid 1100s. Incredibly, I learned that the Abbey went out of usage in the 1500s courtesy of Henry VIII’s tiff with Rome and that at one stage during the 1800s the church’s nave was being used as a public road. Apparently the A650 (or some such) used to go right through the hey-diddle-diddle (see attached photo). Thankfully a great deal of effort is now going into preserving the building although, IMHO, some of the restoration work looks pretty dodgy. Reckon they should leave it as it is. Anyway, a magic place and just a few par 5s from the pod!
It will come as no surprise to most of you to know that I have been in hot demand as a speaker in exotic and far off places like …… well, Hull for one. But I’ve also managed to get to University of Limerick in the Republic of Ireland where I was ridiculously well treated. In perhaps a case of ‘only in Ireland’, St Patrick’s day eve (yes, in Ireland they celebrate St Patrick’s day eve! Spud and Cal take note) found me in a Limerick pub where, as well as sharing a pint of Guinness with my friend Ann McPhaill and a local bloke called (cross my heart) Paddy, there was a poetry reading. And bugger me if the poetry reading didn’t draw a bumper crowd! I mean, the mayor was there with his dangly bits, people at the back were standing on tip toes, straining to hear and a few people even had the audacity and the temerity to ‘shhhh!’ we drinkers! And, most amazing of all, the drinkers seemed to think this was fair enough!! Perhaps the highlight came during the breaks in the poetry when a little old lady, who could not have been under 85 or so, came up to the microphone and tootled away on a harmonica while everyone listened, smiled in silence and applauded generously. Not sure I can imagine the same scene being repeated at the Ox (Bathurst watering hole) somehow. I must admit, it gives me hope for humanity that there are still places in the world where this kind of thing goes on.
Not much else to report except to say that I’m working hard (well, at least between about 2.30pm and about 3.15pm most days when I am absolutely untouchable!) to give Leeds Metropolitan their money’s worth. I’ve bought a second hand guitar and a second hand bike which I have used to begin exploring the Yorkshire Dales (see attached photo of Otley village taken from the Chevin Ridge, just north of Leeds, on one of my first peddles). Only problem is that I have now realised the bike is a tiny bit small for me and has a very high gearing which means that riding up hill and down dale (ha!) is proving very challenging for little ol’ me. Whoever owned the bike before me was small and as fit as a sooty trout.
Hard to believe that I’ve been here for three months. Trips to Finland and Canada (for Ontario graduation) coming up and the pod is in a state of high excitement preparing for the visits of Rod Allan and the Abbott girls (Pam, Geraldine and Cal). Civic receptions are planned. Anyone else wishing to partake of some northern hospitality in the old dart should feel free to drop me a line.
Love yous all
MG
Bloody hell! It’s spring already and I haven’t written since the depths of the northern winter, a winter which (you may remember) nearly finished off your brave little correspondent. Fear not, though. I have negotiated what was left of the snow and icy winds and emerged into spring which has brought……. snow and icy winds! Well, a slight exaggeration (but there has been spring snow). Things have warmed up somewhat and I’ve even had the windows of the ‘pod’ (the name chosen by friends for my apartment) open from time to time. In fact, a number of my colleagues have warned me that it got so hot during graduation week last year that people were fainting left, right and centre. I’m not surprised given the mercury was apparently nudging 27!
It’s go go go here, what with Her Maj turning 80 (I sent her footy cards), my beloved Tottenham Hotspurs vying for a place in the European Champions League and one’s collection of page 3 girls growing by the day. I can also now reveal exclusively to you all that I was flown to Rome to do some last minute campaigning for my old buddy Romano Prodi in the recently decided Italian election. You will, of course, be aware that Italy has surged (well, inched) back to the left and the Fascists have been defeated once again by we honest progressives. I insisted on no remuneration for what I saw as an act of international solidarity, although I did pick up a coupla pairs of shoes at a startling discount. All above board.
Speaking of my apartment as I was earlier, there were a few hitches getting in but it has turned out to be the stylish (read Spartan) cubby hole I hoped it would be (see attached photo). My fellow Yorkshire women and men are generally amazed when they find out that they actually know someone who lives right in the middle of Leeds. I, of course, toss it off as no big deal. The occasional all night sirens of shop security alarms and the choruses of hooched up locals declaring their love and/or hatred for each other at the top of the voices most Friday and Saturday nights between about midnight and 2 am notwithstanding, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Rent schment.
It is my melancholy duty to report that since I last wrote I have been to only one sporting event (actually two, but one was the national netball league which, as I'm sure you realise, doesn’t count). This was a superleague clash between the Leeds Rhinos and the Castleford Tigers at Leeds’ homeground, Headingley Stadium (which, as you can see from the attached photo of me and my friend’s son Michael post-hooter, is actually sponsored by my employer). There is a lot to say about English rugby league. First, the atmosphere here absolutely kills going to a game in Australia, I sat in the beautiful old wooden grand stand on the northern side of the ground (clearly they don’t see a problem in having an east-west running ground, perhaps because the sun is such a rare spectator) and lapped up the singing and drumming and raw passion of the fans. The passion comes partly, I suppose, from the regionalism. Reading the newspapers and listening to the radio you also realise something which some of my countrymen and women may find surprising; sport matters to people in England in a way Australians will never understand. It doesn’t matter to everyone, of course, but to those who care, it matters a lot. You can hear it in the voices. Perhaps it comes also from the folklore about England inventing modern sport. Who knows.
The game itself was very one sided (something which didn’t diminish the enthusiasm of either sets of supporters) and there was a startling difference in the size of the players; the mungos (technical name for rugby league players in general) from Leeds (a perennial power in the competition) dwarfed the Castleford (recently promoted from the second division) blokes. Men vs boys stuff it was. The tune: 68-14 to the home team.
On a less athletic note, I have been to visit the village of Saltaire. Really now a suburb of Bradford. Saltaire was established in the 1850s by Titus Salt, an industrialist who became known for his relative generosity towards the local proletariats. He built the lucky souls who worked in his wool mill larger than normal houses which were unusually well heated and close to the mill (see attached photo of ‘t mill, now converted into an art gallery, restaurants and offices. And bloody hell! Doesn’t the world need a few more of them!).
He even built a covered walkway connecting the houses to ‘t mill so they didn’t have to get wet. The village is a world heritage site and is also home to a fabby little neo-classical Non-conformist church which just happens to be one of the 1000 churches described in my favourite book, ‘England’s 1000 Best Churches’. The church is interesting for a number of reasons (see attached photo of lovely entrance portico and tower) but my favourite was the small raised platform (or, as the bloke in the book calls it, plinth) that the pews sit on, presumably to allow for under floor heating. I had a great afternoon sniffing the history and went home smug in the knowledge that I only have 999 more churches to see.
While on the subject of places of worship, it would be remiss not to mention one’s pilgrimage to Kirkstall Abbey, a ruined Cistercian monk hang out built in the mid 1100s. Incredibly, I learned that the Abbey went out of usage in the 1500s courtesy of Henry VIII’s tiff with Rome and that at one stage during the 1800s the church’s nave was being used as a public road. Apparently the A650 (or some such) used to go right through the hey-diddle-diddle (see attached photo). Thankfully a great deal of effort is now going into preserving the building although, IMHO, some of the restoration work looks pretty dodgy. Reckon they should leave it as it is. Anyway, a magic place and just a few par 5s from the pod!
It will come as no surprise to most of you to know that I have been in hot demand as a speaker in exotic and far off places like …… well, Hull for one. But I’ve also managed to get to University of Limerick in the Republic of Ireland where I was ridiculously well treated. In perhaps a case of ‘only in Ireland’, St Patrick’s day eve (yes, in Ireland they celebrate St Patrick’s day eve! Spud and Cal take note) found me in a Limerick pub where, as well as sharing a pint of Guinness with my friend Ann McPhaill and a local bloke called (cross my heart) Paddy, there was a poetry reading. And bugger me if the poetry reading didn’t draw a bumper crowd! I mean, the mayor was there with his dangly bits, people at the back were standing on tip toes, straining to hear and a few people even had the audacity and the temerity to ‘shhhh!’ we drinkers! And, most amazing of all, the drinkers seemed to think this was fair enough!! Perhaps the highlight came during the breaks in the poetry when a little old lady, who could not have been under 85 or so, came up to the microphone and tootled away on a harmonica while everyone listened, smiled in silence and applauded generously. Not sure I can imagine the same scene being repeated at the Ox (Bathurst watering hole) somehow. I must admit, it gives me hope for humanity that there are still places in the world where this kind of thing goes on.
Not much else to report except to say that I’m working hard (well, at least between about 2.30pm and about 3.15pm most days when I am absolutely untouchable!) to give Leeds Metropolitan their money’s worth. I’ve bought a second hand guitar and a second hand bike which I have used to begin exploring the Yorkshire Dales (see attached photo of Otley village taken from the Chevin Ridge, just north of Leeds, on one of my first peddles). Only problem is that I have now realised the bike is a tiny bit small for me and has a very high gearing which means that riding up hill and down dale (ha!) is proving very challenging for little ol’ me. Whoever owned the bike before me was small and as fit as a sooty trout.
Hard to believe that I’ve been here for three months. Trips to Finland and Canada (for Ontario graduation) coming up and the pod is in a state of high excitement preparing for the visits of Rod Allan and the Abbott girls (Pam, Geraldine and Cal). Civic receptions are planned. Anyone else wishing to partake of some northern hospitality in the old dart should feel free to drop me a line.
Love yous all
MG
posted by MG at 5:44 AM
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