Archives for posts with tag: Yorkshire England

On this, my first visit to Yorkshire, I am staying at The Craiglands Hotel. I have been here seven nights so far.

The room is comfortable and the spacious bathroom has a deep tub and a heated towel rack. I make use of these amenities nearly everyday. The staff are friendly and helpful.

On Saturday as I was leaving the hotel to walk to town for a belated breakfast I saw a wedding party arriving, a red carpet laid on the front steps, people milling about. I spent the day in town, sketching and walking about, bought a picnic lunch to eat later and planned an evening rendezvous with my friend D. for a singing session on Zoom.

Saturday evening just as I had finished my in-room picnic and lay down for a rest, I heard music thumping through the floor. At first I thought it was another guest listening to music in his room, but the sound was too loud and persistent for that. As the bass and drums continued to pound and rattle I remembered the wedding party and went down to the front desk to ask how long the music would continue.

“Until midnight,” the desk clerk told me.

Midnight! It was 7 PM.

He offered to look for another room for me and he did but there was nothing available, the remaining rooms having been assigned to guests who had not yet checked in for the evening.

Back in my throbbing room, I emailed D. to ask if he could come collect me earlier, explaining the situation. He responded by asking if I needed to bring a toothbrush and said he and H. could put me up on the sofa if necessary.

I stayed at D. and H.’s until quarter after midnight, at which time he took me back to The Craiglands. The front door was wide open, and the lights were blazing, but it was blissfully quiet. I bathed and crawled into bed in my silent room.

The next morning when I went to the customary room for breakfast it was empty: no food on the steam tables, no sign of anyone else. I padded back to the front desk and asked about breakfast, which is included in the price of a stay.

“It’s down the far end,” I was told. I walked all of the way to the end of the hall and entered a ballroom. There was food alright, but there was no silverware on any table and the coffee urn was empty. I trudged out again to find a staff person whom I told about the lack of flatware and coffee. She supplied both for me — as I said, the staff are generally helpful.

As I exited the hotel after breakfast I saw another large party arriving, dressed to the nines in embroidered saris and formal clothes. “This looks like another wedding,” I thought to myself, dodging around the large, expensive vehicles idling in front of The Craiglands and going off to visit the Toy Museum, which is full of old dollhouses, teddy bears, train sets and a mechanized carnival.

Upon my return I found a message marked “urgent” from D. I feared a Covid outbreak, but the problem was that his computer was down. Since my phone does not work in the UK, D. and I communicate via email and Zoom, just as we do when I am at home in the States. He had borrowed H’s computer to send me a message.

I replied that he was welcome to use my laptop and asked him to collect me earlier than we had planned. I was able to help him access his email remotely and to strategize about what to do before he could have his computer looked at. Then I settled down to doing my laundry and having Sunday dinner with my friends.

I returned to the Craiglands at about 9 PM. The red carpet outside was strewn with the remains of flower petals and, once again, the hotel was quiet. I hung damp laundry on every surface that would bear it before I went to bed.

This morning, the lights were out in the corridor outside my room. Okay. The lights work in my room and in the other corridors. Breakfast was once again served in the ballroom. I prefer the more intimate breakfast room usually in use so I did not stay long and returned to my room to make tea.

Tonight is my last night here before I depart for Bournemouth on Tuesday to visit a student. Who knows what will happen tonight and tomorrow morning?

One of the challenges of traveling is eating something resembling your usual diet. Coming from California, I have an advantage in the fresh produce department: the state has a long growing season, temperate climate and many farmers markets.

I get breakfast at my hotel each morning. From the start I have been serving myself tomatoes and mushrooms to mix with my scrambled eggs even though I would not normally eat either of those things for breakfast. It isn’t a bad mixture: I eat it because I am constantly stalking fruit and vegetables on menus.

On the first day, I also served myself some fruit salad, which seemed to consist mostly of green apples. Alas, they looked lovely because they had been doused liberally with lemon juice to preserve their color. Sour apples with sour lemon — no. I wondered why they hadn’t served them as a cooked compote. By the next day I had learned to pick the pineapple and grapes out of the mixture, leaving the apples behind. Yesterday I scored a single orange segment and this morning a bite-sized chunk of watermelon.

My first night here I dined out in town, choosing a French restaurant where I could get steak frites. I started with a cup of soup because it was tomato and red pepper soup, a basic puree that could have used a bit of cream to smooth it out. The steak and the frites (skinny, salty French fries) were delicious, but the best thing on the plate was a little mound of watercress drizzled with tomato vinaigrette. I could have eaten an entire plate of that.

I had dinner at the hotel last night because rain threatened and it is more than a mile to town and back. I had perused the menu in the bar and was leaning heavily toward Caesar salad to get all of that crunchy green romaine. When I sat down at the table, however, the server informed me that there were no salads. Why would that be? I have no idea.

I ordered pasta carbonara and asked if the side of vegetables listed on the menu was available. Yes, it was.

“What kind of vegetables do you have?” I asked.

“What kind of vegetables do you want?” was the answer. “Tomatoes? Onions?”

“Something green, please. Not peas. Green beans? Broccoli? Broccolini? Spinach?”

I got a lovely little bowl of green beans, broccoli and courgette (zucchini), which I don’t think of as a green vegetable. The chef threw in a little butter and some flecks of parsley.

My pasta came flecked with parsley as well, but so devoid of Parmesan that it wasn’t salty or sweet, but merely bland. I added pepper from the table liberally and made a note not to order carbonara here again. The shallow, flat bowl was full: a lot of pasta.

If I eat lemon tart, will the lemon count as a fruit? It came with dabs of orange curd and a tiny pool of raspberry sauce. I ate those, pushing aside the chocolate curls and something that looked like red confetti. In my opinion, chocolate curls do not belong on a lemon dessert — a wee puff of whipped cream perhaps, but less is more.

The ubiquitous vegetable here appears to be peas. English peas or garden peas are possibly my least favorite vegetable, although I like snow peas and sugar snap peas eaten raw. Once again, my Californian upbringing.

I haven’t yet resorted to hunting up a shop and buying things I can eat raw. In the days when you could travel with a pocket knife, self-styled picnics were easier.

How do you procure fruit and vegetables when you are traveling?

After countless hours in the Dublin airport, a fiendishly long layover during which I wrote, sketched, drank a cappuccino to remain awake after a near sleepless night on a red-eye from Los Angeles, and tried many times to sleep sitting in a chair, but ended up meditating instead, I ended up at a crowded gate at 4:00 in the morning, got on a bus and boarded a small plane, the kind where you walk across the tarmac and climb a narrow ladder, two seats on either side of the aisle. The flight was advertised with a meal, but to get one you would have had to pay for it, so I didn’t have breakfast on the plane.

What I noticed as we approached Leeds/Bradford airport was how green everything was, fields and trees everywhere greener than in eastern Ireland. The airport is tiny. Someone waved me through customs and I went back to see if I needed my passport stamped. Someone said they often don’t stamp them if you enter from Ireland. That means there is no official record that I am here in England.

My friend D. had told me to get a bus to Otley, Yorkshire and, after two errors, I found the right one. The bus had WiFi so I was able to log on and tell D. I was on my way to Otley. I had assured him that most bus stations had a nearby cab rank and that I would get a cab from Otley to his house. Well, most American bus stations have a cab rank…

When I inquired about a cab and said I was going to Ilkley, a bus driver said “There’s a bus to Ilkley, but it just left.”

Of course it did. The buses were 28 minutes apart so I found a place to wait. It was a dry, overcast morning, but someone had done their best to imitate rain by flooding hanging baskets of flowers which were raining on the pavement.

When the bus pulled up, I asked the driver if he was going to Ilkley. He repeated “Ilkley” in an accent that implied I hadn’t got the name quite right, a dark, swallowed sound. Because I had no idea how long it would take to reach Ilkley I did not use the free WiFi on the coach but watched out the window and watched the monitor showing the stops.

I was tempted to get off in the village of Burley when one stop featured a brick square and a map, but I stayed on the bus until it terminated at Ilkley Station. I saw a post office with a bench in front and made for it. I meant to call D. to come get me, but my phone said “No service.” I paid for international roaming, but my phone had not worked in the Dublin airport, nor did it work in Ilkley.

I dug out my laptop and tried to join the local free network. The internet hamsters ran about on their wheel as fast as they could but I never got on. Okay, plan B: get some breakfast.

I looked across the street and saw a bakery, Loafers Bakery. Perfect. I studied the unfamiliar menu and then told the counter person I had not yet eaten breakfast and asked what she recommended. She suggested a bacon and egg or an egg and sausage sandwich. I chose the latter and asked for a cup of tea.

“Sugar?” she asked

“Sugar and milk, please.”

I was running on fumes as I crossed the street and sat on a wall to unwrap my sandwich. To my horror, it contained a sausage patty as thick as a hockey puck and a fried egg with a runny yolk on flavorless white bread. I nibbled the thin white edges of the egg, careful to avoid anything yellow, took one bite of sausage and went for the tea. This was, undoubtedly, the worst cup of tea I have ever had: weak, not sweet. The only thing it had going for it was that it was hot. I drank all of it.

Wondering what I was going to do next, I looked around and saw a cab leaving: there was a cab rank in the street in front of the post office. Stowing my uneaten sandwich in my day pack, I went to stand by the sign painted on the road.

When I gave the cabbie D’s address he knew right where it was and took me up the road for five pounds. As we turned into D’s street I saw a woman who could only be D’s. wife H., whom I had glimpsed all of once in a Zoom background. She was going out to look for me.

D. and H. helped me into the house, put on a kettle for tea and showed me into their lounge or sitting room. H. placed a plate of homemade shortbread within easy reach and had me choose a china mug for tea. Good, strong Yorkshire tea. D. was full of apologies, but I assured him I had enjoyed taking the buses and watching the “shower” at Otley Bus Station. I told him that travel was all about adapting on the fly. I had found my way to him, hadn’t I? When I told them about the dreadful sandwich and tea H. said, “They’ve been there for years. I don’t know how they stay in business.”

D and H. kindly allowed me to nap on their settee. I woke just before 4 PM. We loaded my gear into D.’s car and he dropped me at the front entrance to my hotel. After wandering a maze of corridors and struggling with my key card (I had not stopped to read the instructions), I opened the door to a spacious room with a large bathroom.

Tired as I was, I unpacked all of my clothes, hanging most in the closet and folding the others onto shelves with the laundry bag isolated on the top shelf. I then did computer yoga, typing with my right hand while using my left to hold my Apple charger in the socket of the adapter in a wall plug (The weight of the Apple charger pulls it away from the adapter socket). I got to 85% battery capacity before it was time to teach a writing class on Zoom from the comfort of the big, soft bed — two and a half days later, I still owe my students their class summary — they’ll get it eventually….