Day 113: Carlisle

Tags

Caesar Salad, Carlisle, Carlisle Cumbria, Cumbria, Derek Batey, Georgia Brown, Hunter Davies, John Coltrane, Lester Young

A Cycle on the Celtic Fringe …. Part 22

It was an almost perfect school holiday early afternoon as I wheeled my bicycle into the centre of Carlisle. For the first time on the journey, I’m feeling fit and fresh and enjoying the exertion. I’ve covered the forty miles I’d planned, had a host of hotels and hostels to choose from. But, there were still hours left in the day and strength in my legs. The world was my oyster and Carlisle was the pearl.

The local youth have captured the market cross; the holiday equivalent of seizing the back seat of the bus; it isn’t the most comfortable and no-one else wants it.

They’re practising being grown-ups. These are the ones with some GCSEs in the bag. They mix comfortably with each other; easy in company and loyal to the shared experience of school, exams and now, fashion and a summer holiday stretching out. They are a handsome bunch in jeans and strappy tops. No cigarettes, no lager. Not even cans of energy drink. Just sunshine, friendship and a sense of satisfaction.

Carlisle has a very green centre. The whole of the centre is pedestrianised and has been for long enough for trees to reach a good size. They allow the buildings behind to make their presence felt without displaying the usual parade of plastic signs that make all English towns alike and a little sad. Against a perfect summer’s sky; azure blue with cotton wool clouds floating on midsummer zephyrs; the whole square looks a picture.

The sound is of people. The car has been banished and Carlisle hasn’t troubled itself with thoughts of going back to the tram or the trolley bus. The sounds you hear are people talking. It’s most pleasant until a local busker introduces a grotesque lack of ability to the gathered throngs. The good news is that he’s playing without amplification. As a result he gets a couple of Johnson pounds for keeping an eye on my bicycle. I downright refuse to give money to any busker who has a microphone and speakers. The bad news is that he is playing the saxophone and, even when played badly, and believe me this one was being strangled, the saxophone is a very loud instrument.

I don’t care much for the sax. In the hands of John Coltrane or Lester Young it can reduce me to tears, but on the whole I can manage quite nicely without. This fellow wasn’t far off reducing half the sunny population of the border city to tears.

With some regrets I plump for Marks and Spencer for lunch. I’d like to choose somewhere local but I’m surrounded by the usual retailers and M & S guarantee something tasty and clean. After walking all the way through acres of women’s ware including an accidental diversion into a splendid lingerie department, I come to the opposite doors without locating any food at all. The store continues across the next road and here I find salad bars and sandwiches. It’s late lunch time and the girl with the reduced labelling machine is busy and I buy twice what I otherwise would have done. A big bowl of Caesar Salad and an equally oversized coleslaw and prawn based salad. I add a baguette and return to the square where an elderly man, smart in moleskin trousers and a Vyella shirt and woven tie, makes room for me on his bench.

He’s enjoying the weather, the location and is even making contented small talk with the picnicking cyclist. The tones of jazz standards being massacred brings an occasional wince to his face. Georgia Brown is not so sweet today in north Cumbria.

“As Louis sang; It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.” I observe.

“He’d turn in his grave.”

“Is he a regular?”

“Every bloody day this summer. I wouldn’t mind so much if he played modern songs but he plays songs that I like.”

“Maybe he’s deaf.” I suggest.

“I wish I was when he starts to play.”

It’s broken the ice nicely. He’s eating a pastry from Greggs. We chat amiably in the summer sun. He tells me about the city. Occasionally there’s a small falling out over by the cross and two young Carlislites chase each other and when they catch they forget why they were chasing and embrace. It’s quite a tactile town. There’s a lot of gentle touching going on. Is it the sunshine, the skimpy summer clothes or is this a seriously amorous city?

My elderly friend and I are suitably chaste. We’re observers not performers. He tells me where to find the cathedral, the castle and the best way to find quiet back roads towards Gretna and the Scottish border. He doesn’t think of it as a border town. He likes living here but that’s because he’s always lived here. “It does me fine. It’s got all that I need and I like to sit here while the wife does her bit of shopping.”

I leave him and explore the outsides of the squat and dumpy cathedral. Like a village church up on bricks. It’s one of the smallest of all the English cathedral churches. I can’t find anywhere I trust to leave my bicycle, so it’s exteriors only here and at the castle.

Carlisle has one heck of a history. From 1066 to 1603 this was largely about problems between England and Scotland. Either armies passing through to fight battles, put down rebellion or deal with the cross border crime spree that provided whole careers and gave the world the word “Reiver”. Basically border raiders, though nationality meant little if a profitable enterprise was a foot.

Carlisle also has a smattering of local celebrities. Border television was based up here and in the days when broadcasters struggled to fill three channels, this company made a national figure out of Derek Batey; a chubby, ageing, personality free television host who fronted Border’s only nationally networked programme. The 450 episode running Mr and Mrs. Not content in giving the world one contender for most pointless television presenter award; Carlisle went on to give both Richard Madeley and Richard Hammond their big breaks. The city, wisely, allowed them to move on.

Carlisle has produced few modern celebrities, but the ones that they have produced, are of the first order. Melvyn Bragg has probably done more for the arts in Britain in the last fifty years than anyone else. He’s walked the tight rope between serious art and mass audience with dignity and flair. The South Bank Show ran for even longer than Mr and Mrs and left behind slightly more than a catchy theme tune. Mike Figgis had the early sense to leave behind being in Bryan Ferry’s first band and has gone on to become one of Britain’s most successful film makers. You may not enjoy every moment of a Mike Figgis film but you know you’ve been in the cinema. He’s varied his output, producing documentaries, television work and major feature films. I’m quite a fan.

I don’t drink wine anymore but I’ve always had time for Jancis Robinson. She’s from Carlisle and has given a steadying credibility to an often dis-credited job. While television food shows employed a collection of people that made you squirm, to tell you about wine; people who I wouldn’t trust to be able to tell bollinger from brolac; Jancis gave dignity and authority to the role of wine sniffer and gurgler. It’s an easy job for a charlatan and this makes it all the more important to have someone you can trust and our Mrs Robinson has always been that.

Making up an impressive quartet is Hunter Davies; first and best biographer of the Beatles, Punch columnist, predecessor to Mariella Frostrup as Radio 4s voice of books and someone who had actually read most of those he discussed and one of the best sports’ journalists of his generation.

I’ve had a very nice time in Carlisle. I’ve seen a town of surprises and buildings I’d like to explore more fully. I’ve seen a city at ease with itself. There are supposed to be problem areas and even talk of no-go areas but I never saw any of this. It’s got two rivers and a history to shame most English cities. It guards one end of the English Scottish border and unlike Berwick at the other end, Carlisle is 100% English and proud of it.

Day 112: Steam Trains and Squirrels

Tags

Armathwaite, Carlisle, Cumbria, Red squirrel, Siri Hustvedt, Squirrel, Starbucks, Wilkie Collins

A Cycle on the Celtic Fringe … Part 21

It’s as I’m making my way up the longest and steepest of the morning hills that I get an unfamiliar buzzing tone. It repeats itself several times and announces that for the first time in Cumbria, I’ve got a signal on my phone. It’s not that the county is without coverage, it’s more that Three don’t see the need to put on much of a service. “Sparse population; sod em!”

KirkOswald is an attractive village with an even more attractive shop. Cumbria is gaining a reputation as a place to eat well and the general store has a range of decent snacks on offer as well as good quality coffee. Gone are the days when a village shop is a place to buy sprouting, wrinkled vegetables and tins of Tyne Brand stew the wrong side of its sell-by date. Those shops have simply gone. The ones that have survived haven’t just diversified but have added a layer of quality over what is available in towns. This shop is no Starbucks because it is better than Starbucks. It serves me an excellent coffee in the fine, corrugated cups with lids that make al fresco coffee even nicer. It is the highlight of the village.

I settle on the one bench and watch the world go round. It goes round quite slowly and pleasantly at first. I see three people. A stunningly beautiful girl in her early twenties carrying a storybook. A woman who was either the last word in superciliousness or she had a bad smell up her nose and an arrogant, insensitive twerp who parked his Vauxhall Moriva right in front of me when there was ample parking either side, picked his Sun newspaper and a baguette (the object of his drive) from the front seat. Got out, scratched his privates and waddled off. He had a car, he lived in a delightful village. He had some things going for him. He had some things against him; he was bald, podgy, bore a series of expressions designed (apparently) to enhance his feelings of importance but which had the opposite effect. His wraparound sun glasses may have intended to give him a Bonoesque chic. Maybe they did. It’s not a look you aspire to unless you are rich enough not to care what people think. I took the registration number of his car in case anyone thinks they know the discourteous pillock and may supply it on request. I bet he’s already been recognised by anyone who knows the location. The village is too small for two such men.

The road to Armathwaite was signed as being five miles and was up and down enough to feel every inch of that. It was also rather lovely. The heights gave you views over the green meadows that characterise this section of the Eden Valley. The drops were into verdant woodland where all the road signs featured red squirrels. The first said “Red Squirrel Area”. the second, “Slow Red Squirrels”. (I presumed these were probably older members of the colony). The one that read “Caution Red Squirrels” had me looking out for arboreal rodents armed with acorns and the final sign that said “Danger Red Squirrels” had me quickening my pace and getting out of there.

I saw not a single squirrel and felt a little cheated.

In the shop at Armathwaite I buy a bar of fruit and nut and an isotonic drink. I have no idea if these work at my levels of effort but it was the only drink they had in a closable container. I asked about the route to Carlisle. “Is it a quiet road?”

“Oh yes, quiet enough.”

“Is it hilly?”

“Depends what you mean by hilly.”

“Is it up and down?”

“More up and up, I’d say.”

I sit outside the shop and enjoy the chocolate and most of the drink. The world seems perfect; slow paced and purposeful. It’s rural, it’s beautiful but there were no signs of tourists while I was there… except the lounging cyclist outside the shop.

He was exaggerating the gradient. A few pulls and stretches of the legs and I’m onto a flat long road that runs alongside the famous railway. A friendly fellow leans out of a signal box and tells me to stop if I want a good view of a passing steam train. As good as his word the engine hurried through, pulling several coaches, a couple of minutes later. They were a fine sight in their day. I’m old enough to remember steam trains passing my infant school  and always with a guard who waved. They are an even more splendid sight today, especially on a proper section of track; like the Settle to Carlisle; where they can get up steam and complete a proper journey. I wave my thanks to the signalman and proceed.

I follow a mobile library for a mile or so and stop when it does. Two ladies have been waiting patiently for its arrival. They each have two carrier bags with at least a dozen books in and they answer my enquiry by telling me that I am in Wetheral Pasture. I ask them which would be the best cycle route into the city and they both agree straight away. They give detailed directions and then, finishing each other’s sentences say, “That’s the shortest and the prettiest route”.

I thank them and say I wish we had a mobile library. “Oh, it’s wonderful but it only comes every six weeks so we’ve got to stock up”. They show me some of the books they are bringing back; Wilkie Collins, Siri Hustvedt, Alice Munro. These ladies are proper readers.

It’s mostly neat estates and suburban neatness for the downhill into a city I have never visited. It’s a hot day and the locals are enjoying a festival of flesh. To the outsider it is a mixed treat.

As I close in on the centre I get such local firms as B & Q, Staples and Benson’s Beds. It seems a pity to cycle 150 miles to see the twin trading estate to one in Worksop. These have the big advantage though, of being situated on and around a thoroughfare called Botchergate.

As I get closer still, untidy pizza delivery shops abound. And then, quite suddenly, I’m in the middle of Carlisle and it is lovely.

Day 108: It Was the Best of Towns, It Was the Worst of Towns

Tags

Appleby, Christopher Wren, Cumbria, Dufton, England, Kirkby Stephen, Tremeloes, Westmoreland

A Cycle on the Celtic Fringe … Part 18

Kirkby Stephen is almost my ideal town. It’s a bold and sweeping statement and doesn’t stand up to serious scrutiny. I passed through it once as a travel sick seven year old on my way to visit my grandparents. We lived in Furness on the west coast, they lived in Stockton on the east; most east west travellers in the north pass through Kirkby Stephen at some point. I pass through it again 45 years later, stay for an hour and find it everything I want in a town.

It’s small. You can see the fields from the centre and the hills beyond make a fabulous location. It’s miles from anywhere else. There are no eyesore buildings. Everything is in keeping. The clusters of modern houses don’t intrude upon the ancient. Everything feels like you’re in Westmoreland. Nothing shouts out “Look at me, look at me”. And yet there are gems here aplenty.

The church is magnificent from the outside. It was locked when I was there otherwise I may have stayed for longer. The town stands where Cumbrian geology changes from grey limestone to red sandstone. The flavour of the Eden valley is changed by this. Even the squirrels change colour with the stone. Grey giving way to one of the few places in Britain where there is a better than hopeful chance of seeing red squirrels.

The approach to the church is magnificent too. The design of the cloisters is unusual and not entirely what Christopher Wren would have designed, but they make a wonderful side to the square and a perfect approach to the church. They are also something of a natural hangout for local youth but here in Westmoreland they offer little threat and very low intimidation levels.

I like towns that still make a proper feature of their markets and I like towns with livestock markets even better. I arrive on the wrong day for this, but when I come back; note when not if; I will make sure I arrive with the sheep the cows and the fast talking man with a gavel.

The shops are largely independent and looked to have adapted themselves well to the locality. Obviously no-one was going to miss out on being in Eden when it comes to shop names. The florist has nabbed the most obvious. I buy some good local strawberries and enjoy them with my afternoon ice cream. There’s a leisurely pace but this isn’t country bumpkin backwoods territory. Here they probably do more than in most cities; they just don’t make a fuss over it. They have no need to show each other just how busy they are.The newspaper hoardings give a glimpse. “Former Farmer dies at 105” and “Rock Stars Head to Cumbria”. In my mind I imagine The Tremeloes playing a farmer’s wake in Brough.

If I’d known just how much I was going to like the town I would have stayed there. I had the opposite experience with Appleby. I expected to be won over by it but was left rather flat. It’s a pretty enough place; rather splendid in some ways. It’s got a first class name, is associated with gypsy horse fairs and has some impressive architecture.

I make the mistake of leaving Kirkby on the Appleby road. The county lanes are a delight but all of a sudden you find yourself deposited on the A66 with no alternative but to join the thundering cross-Pennine lorries. Well there is an alternative and that is to retrace a bag full of miles. I take my chances on the main route and hate every pedal turning second. It is beyond scary. You just pedal like fury and hope you don’t get clipped. The air turbulence is enough to knock you off. The nightmare at this point would be a puncture. The side of the road is scattered with sharp, flinty roadstone. I puncture.

Limping the last few hundred yards on the rims of my back wheel; it’s always the back wheel when most inconvenient; I get up the slip road and onto a bit of green on the outskirts of the town. The repair is one of those awkward ones where the first tyre levers snaps and the tyre becomes immovable. Then the wheel won’t slot back into place despite seven different sorts of encouragement. Finally with two inflated tyres and two wheels properly attached, and a map and a dirty t shirt joining the old tube into the nearby waste bin, I pedal into Appleby.

Today it calls itself Appleby-in-Westmoreland and has done ever since Westmoreland ceased to exist. I don’t particularly respect the 1974 county boundaries so I’m more than happy to think of the town as still being the County town of Westmoreland. It was England’s forgotten county before reorganisation and would have disappeared altogether if the good folk hadn’t incorporated the name into the town. Westmoreland does have a sausage and a character in Shakespeare but not much else. It’s a very attractive name; I’m sure more can be done with it.

I don’t know if it were the puncture, high expectations or the downright rudeness of the man in the post office but I wasn’t enjoying my stay. The Eden has become a fully fledged river by now and features heavily in the events of the annual horse fair. There are cloisters like the ones in Kirkby Stephen but these are less inviting. I get a very strong feeling that I’ve come on the wrong day; wrong day for me, wrong day for the town.  I get a town that isn’t quite a town; poor shops, bored teenagers, bad mannered fat women in over-sized cars. I hope for a Booths and get a Spar and a poor one at that. I buy a pint of milk, spaghetti and a jar of pesto and get back into the countryside that is the thing this area does better than anywhere else.

I know Dufton is nearby and my legs have packed it in for the day. It’s actually another five miles and I feel every pedal turn. I get to the youth hostel half an hour before it opens. Not a problem. The kitchen has been left open so I make I big mug of tea, lay down on the rather splendid village green and read a few chapters of The Old Wives’ Tale.