From Dublin I flew to Manchester, where a security alert meant that we were all put onto a bus on the tarmac and whizzed
through immigration without so much as a stamp in our passports. I took a train directly from the airport to Leeds.
Trains in England are now operated by many different companies, so you have to be aware of which one uses which
platform, and also check the destination on the carriage window, because sometimes trains split up once they get to a
hub. Most lines have food and drinks service coming through the carriages, confirming my initial observation in Dublin
that - in contrast to the USA - the customer service sector is alive and flourishing in the British Isles.
Leeds was in the midst of a heatwave, so after suffering another night in an expensive un-airconditioned chain hotel I
hired a car and took off for points north, stopping at the first place that took my fancy. Which was the Yorkshire Lass,
a pub and b and b in Knaresborough, opposite the attraction that claims to be the oldest tourist spot in England -
Mother Shipton's cave. For the next four days I stayed in similar establishments, which charge between 20 and 30 pound a
night and offer hearty breakfasts, including black pudding in Yorkshire and haggis up in Scotland, and invariably
convivial hosts.
The next day I headed for Durham and then followed the route of Hadrian's Wall. All over Britain you should look out for
the brown signposts that indicate a tourist attraction of some sort - or make notes from the copious leaflets that are
put together for each region and in every hotel room. Nearly every tourist attraction charges an entrance fee, but many
of the spots along the Wall are in farmers' paddocks and you can walk to them from the road. The Roman fort at
Carrawburgh and its temple of Mithra where the officers worshipped the sun, is one such example. Seeing a grassy knoll
being grazed by cows and their calves, where once an outpost of empire stood, made me think that perhaps the 17 New York
acres where the twin towers were should be turned into a farm in the city to remind people of what actually matters and
what ultimately endures.
I spent the next night at New Abbey on Scotland's holiday coast on the Solway Firth. The abbey is called the Sweetheart
Abbey on account of how the benefactress of it had her husband's heart removed from his body when he died and then
preserved it as a memento of all that was good and sweet about him. It's a lovely wee town and a bit further west is the
birthplace of John Paul Jones, who became known as the father of the American navy despite being accused variously of
murder and rape. His father was gardener at the adjoining estate, which used to be open to the public but has recently
been bought by absentee landlords - an architect and interior designer from London - who are doing up the house and
refuse to open the gardens to the public.
Heading back towards the western Yorkshire dales the next day I stopped in Richmond, which has a church that is now the
office headquarters and army museum of the Green Howards - who are now based in Northern Ireland - and a castle which,
conversely, has an exhibition and garden dedicated to conscientious objectors. In particular, the Richmond 16, who
refused to fight in the First World War and were imprisoned in the castle, then taken to an army camp in northern France
so that they were technically on active service where refusal to obey orderse was punishable by death. When the news
leaked out, it triggered questions in Parliament and intense national debate.
My exciting trip through the western Yorkshire dales along one-way roads - which all seemed to lead to a town ominously
named 'Dent' - started at Kirkby Lonsdale, where I stopped at the Devil's Bridge for a snack from the pie cart that
parks there along with an ice cream truck. Nearby was a scene that is quintessential England - signposts for public
walks and a common green where people had come with their deckchairs and picnics to enjoy the sun. When so many people
live in terrace houses, these public spaces are vital to the community and I was pleased to see that they're still well
looked-after and well-used, rather than people being frightened away from them because of crime.
England's world cup cruncher eve was spent in another Kirkby - Kirkby Stephen - where I was awoken at 7:25 am by a male
voice somewhere in the town singing 'God Save the Queen' at the top of his lungs. The sombre faces out on the street
later told me all I needed to know about the results. I headed back to the Yorkshire Lass for the evening and then
returned the car to Leeds the next morning - having to turn on the windshield wipers for the first time since I'd been
on the big island, and then only for a couple of minutes. My Great North Eastern train to London had been held up by a
derailment further up the line, so I was put on Virgin instead and sent north to York to catch the next GNE train going
to London on a route that hadn't been blocked.
And so it was that I arrived at Kings Cross, took the tube to Bayswater and found myself in London.
Lea Barker
Bayswater, London
Thursday, June 27 2002