A weekend in Wharfedale
Jan. 16th, 2022 06:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustOur accommodation is not provided with wi-fi: the Landmark Trust take the view that their customers want a digital detox - or that, whether we want it or not, it is good for us and we shall have one. But the phone signal is good, and durham_rambler has provided me with a hotspot, with which I can upload some notes I prepared earlier. Photos will have to wait until we get home, though...
A bright winter sun low in the sky made for a challenging drive for the driver, and an entertaining one for the passengers.
It was, of course, later than we had intended when we set off; or rather, later thandurham_rambler had intended, and later than I would have liked, but about the earliest I had thought achievable: midday, in fact. We collected J., and succeeded in stowing the luggage and supplies for three and still accommodating a passenger in - she assured us - comfort. Lunch, on J.'s recommendation, was at the Tree Tops café in Barkers furniture store on the outskirts of Northallerton. We had laughed, knowing her passion for the shop, but it was actually a very pleasant busy café adrift in a vast expanse of deserted furniture, and we sat by the huge window looking onto the tops of the trees that surround the car park and eavesdropped on the neighbouring tables: "But mother, you voted for Brexit!"
By the time we were back on the road, the sun was bouncing along the horizon, and it accompanied us for the next hour, in a sky so clear that the only sign of sunset was a golden glow and a thin streak of gold. But as soon as it was gone, dark clouds filled the top of Nidderdale. We persevered, down the other side into Wharfedale, and not much further to a turning off the main road -
- and then, What? Seriously? Where do we go now? Surely this is just the access for that very splendid building? Through that archway? Can we? Will the car even fit... But we squeezed through, one arch then the next - and this was definitely right, because our destination was framed in the archway straight ahead of us. Which deserves a fanfare, or at the very least a photograph.
And photographs there will be in due course - just imagine them, for now.
Beamsley Hospital was built in 1589 as almshouses, housing seven women in rooms radiating from a central chapel (the building along the road, through which we drove in, is also part of the almshouses, completed later). The conversion gives us three bedrooms (one double, one twin and one single), kitchen, dining room and sitting room, plus various cupboards, all radiating from that central chapel. The proliferation of wooden doors can be confusing, and I find myself in the dining room when I am aiming for somewhere else - but no-one has yet fallen down any of the internal steps.
J and I have unpacked our provisions as best we could: the coolest place to store the vegetables would seem to be the chapel, and I've put the red wine there too, but discreetly, box and bag tidily together. We have made tea, and D. has arrived. And since one of the things that did not get packed is the extension lead, and the battery on my notebook is - actually, it is holding out suprisingly well, but I still think it's time to save this and see if I can find somewhere convenient to charge it.
From the outside, Beamsley Hospital is quite magical: there seemed a fair possibility that all of its charm would be here, and that the interior would be tiny and cramped. It's true that the rooms are small - and the lady in the local farm shop this afternoon confirmed that when her grandmother lived here, as one of the last residents, in a single room, it did feel very small. But there's plenty of room for four of us, in three bedrooms (anddurham_rambler and I have the double, with tiny almost-en-suite, which is luxury. There's a sofa and two armchairs in the sitting room, and a separate dining room, where I am now writing at the dinner table. J. cooked us a splendid dinner, with many different dishes, and some last Christmas treats as well - she has just failed to break into her fairtrade chocolate orange, and has gone into the kitchen to attack it with a rolling pin. Three of us - J., D., and I - are each cooking dinner for one night of our stay, and I note that each of us approaches this responsibility differently: J. has prepared a variety of dishes in an unknown kitchen, which I think very ambitious; I am planning a casserole, for which the components can be cooked together (providing I can find a big pot); D. has brought with him a vat of cassoulet.
This morning's first task - no, this morning's first task was to get to grips with the cafetiere and the toaster, but once that was achieved, the morning's first task was to walk around the outside of our little round home, and to take many pictures.
Then the whole party headed into Ilkley, following the river Wharfe all the way, out of the bright frosty morning and into the misty town. This makes it sound as if the weather stayed fine out of town, and for all I know it may have done - certainly the fog cleared as we returned along the Wharfe this afternoon - but since we were mainly exploring the shops, it didn't matter. In principle I am not a fan of retail therapy, but in practice I can very much enjoy, once in a while, exploring an unfamiliar town by way of its shops, its charity shops and its tiny cluster of market stalls. I bought cards from the bookshop, books from the charity shops (how could I resist The Lost Pianos of Siberia?) and cheese from the market. And after lunch (The Vine Italian restaurant, recommended) we stocked up on wine at Majestic, then took the scenic route back, along the river to the farm shop (where I didn't actually need anything, but bought some marmalade anyway).
Which is quite enough shopping to last me for a while.
Now I must go and cook. That venison won't casserole itself...
I was right about the venison: not only did it not casserole itself, I didn't do too well at casseroling it either. It was too chewy for pleasure. Oh, well...
Today has been a bit mixed: D. spent the morning on steam trains, and seems to have had a good time. The rest of us enjoyed visiting Bolton Abbey station and admiring the train, but were happy to leave it at that. We failed to find somewhere to park for a short walk, and were rather overwhelmed by the crowds at Bolton Abbey, so we ended up on a motor tour of Wharfedale, thwarted by road closures but with fine views of the river and of fields patchworked with dry stone walls - as far as anything so lush and mossy can be called 'dry'. Then we came home and lunched on cheese from Ilkley market (the seller was Wharfedale Fine Cheeses, and they were indeed fine). The afternoon was devoted to the crossword: J. produced a set of dominos, and she anddurham_rambler tried to rememmber the rules, complicated by their being 9-spot dominoes, which J. regarded as the default, though neither durham_rambler nor I had ever heard of them.
D. has just brought me a glass of the orange wine he bought at Majestic yesterday. Time to givedurham_rambler his phone back.
durham_rambler has provided me with a hotspot, with which I can upload some notes I prepared earlier. Photos will have to wait until we get home, though...A bright winter sun low in the sky made for a challenging drive for the driver, and an entertaining one for the passengers.
It was, of course, later than we had intended when we set off; or rather, later than
durham_rambler had intended, and later than I would have liked, but about the earliest I had thought achievable: midday, in fact. We collected J., and succeeded in stowing the luggage and supplies for three and still accommodating a passenger in - she assured us - comfort. Lunch, on J.'s recommendation, was at the Tree Tops café in Barkers furniture store on the outskirts of Northallerton. We had laughed, knowing her passion for the shop, but it was actually a very pleasant busy café adrift in a vast expanse of deserted furniture, and we sat by the huge window looking onto the tops of the trees that surround the car park and eavesdropped on the neighbouring tables: "But mother, you voted for Brexit!"By the time we were back on the road, the sun was bouncing along the horizon, and it accompanied us for the next hour, in a sky so clear that the only sign of sunset was a golden glow and a thin streak of gold. But as soon as it was gone, dark clouds filled the top of Nidderdale. We persevered, down the other side into Wharfedale, and not much further to a turning off the main road -
- and then, What? Seriously? Where do we go now? Surely this is just the access for that very splendid building? Through that archway? Can we? Will the car even fit... But we squeezed through, one arch then the next - and this was definitely right, because our destination was framed in the archway straight ahead of us. Which deserves a fanfare, or at the very least a photograph.
And photographs there will be in due course - just imagine them, for now.
Beamsley Hospital was built in 1589 as almshouses, housing seven women in rooms radiating from a central chapel (the building along the road, through which we drove in, is also part of the almshouses, completed later). The conversion gives us three bedrooms (one double, one twin and one single), kitchen, dining room and sitting room, plus various cupboards, all radiating from that central chapel. The proliferation of wooden doors can be confusing, and I find myself in the dining room when I am aiming for somewhere else - but no-one has yet fallen down any of the internal steps.
J and I have unpacked our provisions as best we could: the coolest place to store the vegetables would seem to be the chapel, and I've put the red wine there too, but discreetly, box and bag tidily together. We have made tea, and D. has arrived. And since one of the things that did not get packed is the extension lead, and the battery on my notebook is - actually, it is holding out suprisingly well, but I still think it's time to save this and see if I can find somewhere convenient to charge it.
* * *
From the outside, Beamsley Hospital is quite magical: there seemed a fair possibility that all of its charm would be here, and that the interior would be tiny and cramped. It's true that the rooms are small - and the lady in the local farm shop this afternoon confirmed that when her grandmother lived here, as one of the last residents, in a single room, it did feel very small. But there's plenty of room for four of us, in three bedrooms (and
durham_rambler and I have the double, with tiny almost-en-suite, which is luxury. There's a sofa and two armchairs in the sitting room, and a separate dining room, where I am now writing at the dinner table. J. cooked us a splendid dinner, with many different dishes, and some last Christmas treats as well - she has just failed to break into her fairtrade chocolate orange, and has gone into the kitchen to attack it with a rolling pin. Three of us - J., D., and I - are each cooking dinner for one night of our stay, and I note that each of us approaches this responsibility differently: J. has prepared a variety of dishes in an unknown kitchen, which I think very ambitious; I am planning a casserole, for which the components can be cooked together (providing I can find a big pot); D. has brought with him a vat of cassoulet.This morning's first task - no, this morning's first task was to get to grips with the cafetiere and the toaster, but once that was achieved, the morning's first task was to walk around the outside of our little round home, and to take many pictures.
Then the whole party headed into Ilkley, following the river Wharfe all the way, out of the bright frosty morning and into the misty town. This makes it sound as if the weather stayed fine out of town, and for all I know it may have done - certainly the fog cleared as we returned along the Wharfe this afternoon - but since we were mainly exploring the shops, it didn't matter. In principle I am not a fan of retail therapy, but in practice I can very much enjoy, once in a while, exploring an unfamiliar town by way of its shops, its charity shops and its tiny cluster of market stalls. I bought cards from the bookshop, books from the charity shops (how could I resist The Lost Pianos of Siberia?) and cheese from the market. And after lunch (The Vine Italian restaurant, recommended) we stocked up on wine at Majestic, then took the scenic route back, along the river to the farm shop (where I didn't actually need anything, but bought some marmalade anyway).
Which is quite enough shopping to last me for a while.
Now I must go and cook. That venison won't casserole itself...
* * *
I was right about the venison: not only did it not casserole itself, I didn't do too well at casseroling it either. It was too chewy for pleasure. Oh, well...
Today has been a bit mixed: D. spent the morning on steam trains, and seems to have had a good time. The rest of us enjoyed visiting Bolton Abbey station and admiring the train, but were happy to leave it at that. We failed to find somewhere to park for a short walk, and were rather overwhelmed by the crowds at Bolton Abbey, so we ended up on a motor tour of Wharfedale, thwarted by road closures but with fine views of the river and of fields patchworked with dry stone walls - as far as anything so lush and mossy can be called 'dry'. Then we came home and lunched on cheese from Ilkley market (the seller was Wharfedale Fine Cheeses, and they were indeed fine). The afternoon was devoted to the crossword: J. produced a set of dominos, and she and
durham_rambler tried to rememmber the rules, complicated by their being 9-spot dominoes, which J. regarded as the default, though neither durham_rambler nor I had ever heard of them.D. has just brought me a glass of the orange wine he bought at Majestic yesterday. Time to give
durham_rambler his phone back.
