The Mancunian Relations, Revisited
Sep. 26th, 2019 12:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ashetlandpony26 September 1989
I had some time to kill before my train left for Manchester, so I got a map of Glasgow and tried to find the old hotel where Mother and I stayed over our very first night ever in Britain in 1967. More's Hotel was no more, however. A motorway had sliced its way through this section of town, and everything on India Street had been razed. Central Glasgow had changed a lot in the last 22 years.
Back at the Blythswood, I packed my bags, checked out, then laboriously trudged my way on foot to the train station, my luggage bashing against my legs the whole way. It was only a block-long walk, but it felt every inch a mile. I boarded the train at 1100, and left Scottish soil at 1224.
After that, I remember nothing until the train arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station at 1508. Literally hundreds of people were jammed on the platform.
As I stepped off the train, I wondered how in the world I was going to find my mother's cousin in a crowd like this. Complicating matters was that I only had a vague recollection of what she looked like; not to mention it had been 15 years since I last saw her. Likely the same was true of her for me, as well.
I needn't have worried, though, because after only a few steps, among that vast multitude, I suddenly found myself face to face with Smithy, beaming radiantly, and welcoming me with open arms.
There's nothing like family. ^_^
This was also the first time I'd met Isabel's daughter, Helen, and Helen's husband, Paul Brownsett. It was at their house that I was to stay the night.
It seems inconceivable to me now, but I took no pictures while I visited with Smithy and the Brownsett family. I know I had film left after Glen Coe. What was I saving it for? I was sure Paul took some pictures. I have in my mind's eye a distinct image of a photo of Isabel Smith and me together at this time, but search as I may, nonesuch is anywhere to be found. It's distressing to me, especially considering I was quite aware at the time that this might very well be the last time I saw Smithy. (Her sister, Wyn, had already passed away earlier in 1989.)
I also regret that I was not able to see Isabel's sister, Mary, and Mary's husband, Eric Messer on this trip. But they lived in Wales now, not Manchester/Salford anymore, and in any case were unable to meet up with me due to family matters they had to attend to in London.
Anyway, we had a fun evening at the Brownsetts, as described in my trip diary. I was duly impressed by Helen's collection of antique furniture. Over dinner, we talked about genealogy (and I made a diagram of the complicated family tree on my mother's father's side, which I still reference to this day). We sipped Scotch after dinner while watching a documentary on Mussolini of all things. Then I packed for my flight back to the US tomorrow.
I had some time to kill before my train left for Manchester, so I got a map of Glasgow and tried to find the old hotel where Mother and I stayed over our very first night ever in Britain in 1967. More's Hotel was no more, however. A motorway had sliced its way through this section of town, and everything on India Street had been razed. Central Glasgow had changed a lot in the last 22 years.
Back at the Blythswood, I packed my bags, checked out, then laboriously trudged my way on foot to the train station, my luggage bashing against my legs the whole way. It was only a block-long walk, but it felt every inch a mile. I boarded the train at 1100, and left Scottish soil at 1224.
After that, I remember nothing until the train arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station at 1508. Literally hundreds of people were jammed on the platform.
As I stepped off the train, I wondered how in the world I was going to find my mother's cousin in a crowd like this. Complicating matters was that I only had a vague recollection of what she looked like; not to mention it had been 15 years since I last saw her. Likely the same was true of her for me, as well.
I needn't have worried, though, because after only a few steps, among that vast multitude, I suddenly found myself face to face with Smithy, beaming radiantly, and welcoming me with open arms.
There's nothing like family. ^_^
This was also the first time I'd met Isabel's daughter, Helen, and Helen's husband, Paul Brownsett. It was at their house that I was to stay the night.
It seems inconceivable to me now, but I took no pictures while I visited with Smithy and the Brownsett family. I know I had film left after Glen Coe. What was I saving it for? I was sure Paul took some pictures. I have in my mind's eye a distinct image of a photo of Isabel Smith and me together at this time, but search as I may, nonesuch is anywhere to be found. It's distressing to me, especially considering I was quite aware at the time that this might very well be the last time I saw Smithy. (Her sister, Wyn, had already passed away earlier in 1989.)
I also regret that I was not able to see Isabel's sister, Mary, and Mary's husband, Eric Messer on this trip. But they lived in Wales now, not Manchester/Salford anymore, and in any case were unable to meet up with me due to family matters they had to attend to in London.
Anyway, we had a fun evening at the Brownsetts, as described in my trip diary. I was duly impressed by Helen's collection of antique furniture. Over dinner, we talked about genealogy (and I made a diagram of the complicated family tree on my mother's father's side, which I still reference to this day). We sipped Scotch after dinner while watching a documentary on Mussolini of all things. Then I packed for my flight back to the US tomorrow.
