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14-17 September 1989
I journeyed to Skipton with great anticipation, but left my adopted home town in England with an equal level of disappointment. It was the low point of my trip, no question.
It wasn't all bad, but long story short, Mother's life-long friend, Florence Stevenson, was an unexpectedly indifferent host. I had looked forward to spending three days touring the Yorkshire countryside with her, but apparently, in her advancing age (she was then 75), Florence did not care to venture away from home much anymore (and neither did she apparently care to inform me of her new hermit lifestyle prior to my visit). Had I known I'd be stuck going nowhere a lot of the time, I would instead have spent two more days in London, or at least made arrangements to rent a car and drive around the Dales, myself. But as my bad luck would have it, there wasn't anyplace in Skipton at the time where one could rent a car on a weekend.
Florence at her new house on Eliot Street.
Anyway, finding myself lacking both transportation and a traveling companion, I spent a lot of time walking around Skipton on my own. On Friday, I took these pictures in town.
Market Day on the High Street.
The War Memorial.
The Parish Church.
Gatehouse of Skipton Castle. Photos by J Scott Shannon.
On Saturday, I dropped by Craven Books to say hello to Misses Farey and Fluck, and found an engraving of Skipton Castle from 1785 that I simply had to have.
Then, after an enjoyable walk around the parish church (which Mother never wanted to set foot in because it was Protestant), and having lunch with Florence at La Caveau, I returned on my own to Craven Books and bought another engraving of Skipton Castle that I'd also fancied.
Together the two artworks totaled over £50 (yikes), but I sensed if I didn't get them both, I'd never be able to look at the one without thinking regretfully of the other.
In the afternoon, while Florence napped, I visited Skipton Castle itself, and took the photos I posted here back in 2007 and 2008. (Speaking of which, I've updated both posts to feature all new pictures scanned from the original 35mm negatives. The difference in image quality is stunning, so have a look!) Then I dropped by the gatehouse to say hello to Mary Wales, and over coffee, she offered to take me on another guided tour of the castle, just like she did with me 22 years previously. Super! This time, though, she added a peek inside the derelict Chapel of St John the Evangelist, which at the time was still off-limits to regular visitors. That was really the icing on the castle cake for me, and Miss Wales' tour in general the high point of my last visit to Skipton.
Then it was back to Florence's house, where she insisted I accompany her to Saturday evening Mass. Oh joy. I'd lost my faith 20 years before and never felt comfortable in church since, but I couldn't say no to my host, and passed the time trying to ignore the liturgy and instead studying the interior details of old St Stephen's Chapel.
For supper that night we went to Mary Wales' flat at the castle gatehouse. That was quite enjoyable, until of course Florence found a way to spoil it, by putting down my praise of Mozart in favor of Beethoven, whom she argued was vastly superior in every way to the composer that I liked. (How very like Mother that was of her to gratuitously contradict me in front of others in such a condescending manner.)
Come Sunday, and it was finally time to depart. The train was 20 minutes late; a wait which was made to seem even longer because Florence and I barely spoke. It was not a happy parting. When the train finally arrived, she simply said, "Good-bye, dear," then abruptly turned her back and walked away. As with previous Skipton train station farewells, I felt like crying, but this time, the tears I choked back derived from an entirely different kind of sadness: the feeling of having been cast aside by an old and dear friend. I knew this was the last time I would ever see Florence. Even if I were to return to the UK in her lifetime, I resolved not to trouble her with my unwelcome presence again.
I didn't have much contact with Florence from that point on. After Mother died the following year, she sent me an envelope full of old pictures from when she and Mother were young. Most I had never seen before, so I was grateful to have them, and I did write to tell her thank you. However, when someone starts sending treasured photos out to others, that's generally a sign that they think they're not long for this world. But I never knew what happened to her, until recently. A few months ago, I emailed St Stephen's parish, inquiring about Miss Stevenson, and though no one presently there knew her, they had a record of a service being held in her name sometime in 2004. That led to a search on a genealogy website, where I saw that Florence had, indeed, passed that year, at the age of 89.
My train ride to Glasgow that afternoon was a grim one. Only things I have a memory of was a troubling conversation with an agitated Indian man, and having the train break down in Lockerbie, Scotland, where Pan Am flight 103 had crashed only months before. (No sign of the disaster was left by that time, however.)
I journeyed to Skipton with great anticipation, but left my adopted home town in England with an equal level of disappointment. It was the low point of my trip, no question.
It wasn't all bad, but long story short, Mother's life-long friend, Florence Stevenson, was an unexpectedly indifferent host. I had looked forward to spending three days touring the Yorkshire countryside with her, but apparently, in her advancing age (she was then 75), Florence did not care to venture away from home much anymore (and neither did she apparently care to inform me of her new hermit lifestyle prior to my visit). Had I known I'd be stuck going nowhere a lot of the time, I would instead have spent two more days in London, or at least made arrangements to rent a car and drive around the Dales, myself. But as my bad luck would have it, there wasn't anyplace in Skipton at the time where one could rent a car on a weekend.
Florence at her new house on Eliot Street.
Anyway, finding myself lacking both transportation and a traveling companion, I spent a lot of time walking around Skipton on my own. On Friday, I took these pictures in town.
Market Day on the High Street.
The War Memorial.
The Parish Church.
Gatehouse of Skipton Castle. Photos by J Scott Shannon.
On Saturday, I dropped by Craven Books to say hello to Misses Farey and Fluck, and found an engraving of Skipton Castle from 1785 that I simply had to have.
Then, after an enjoyable walk around the parish church (which Mother never wanted to set foot in because it was Protestant), and having lunch with Florence at La Caveau, I returned on my own to Craven Books and bought another engraving of Skipton Castle that I'd also fancied.
Together the two artworks totaled over £50 (yikes), but I sensed if I didn't get them both, I'd never be able to look at the one without thinking regretfully of the other.
In the afternoon, while Florence napped, I visited Skipton Castle itself, and took the photos I posted here back in 2007 and 2008. (Speaking of which, I've updated both posts to feature all new pictures scanned from the original 35mm negatives. The difference in image quality is stunning, so have a look!) Then I dropped by the gatehouse to say hello to Mary Wales, and over coffee, she offered to take me on another guided tour of the castle, just like she did with me 22 years previously. Super! This time, though, she added a peek inside the derelict Chapel of St John the Evangelist, which at the time was still off-limits to regular visitors. That was really the icing on the castle cake for me, and Miss Wales' tour in general the high point of my last visit to Skipton.
Then it was back to Florence's house, where she insisted I accompany her to Saturday evening Mass. Oh joy. I'd lost my faith 20 years before and never felt comfortable in church since, but I couldn't say no to my host, and passed the time trying to ignore the liturgy and instead studying the interior details of old St Stephen's Chapel.
For supper that night we went to Mary Wales' flat at the castle gatehouse. That was quite enjoyable, until of course Florence found a way to spoil it, by putting down my praise of Mozart in favor of Beethoven, whom she argued was vastly superior in every way to the composer that I liked. (How very like Mother that was of her to gratuitously contradict me in front of others in such a condescending manner.)
Come Sunday, and it was finally time to depart. The train was 20 minutes late; a wait which was made to seem even longer because Florence and I barely spoke. It was not a happy parting. When the train finally arrived, she simply said, "Good-bye, dear," then abruptly turned her back and walked away. As with previous Skipton train station farewells, I felt like crying, but this time, the tears I choked back derived from an entirely different kind of sadness: the feeling of having been cast aside by an old and dear friend. I knew this was the last time I would ever see Florence. Even if I were to return to the UK in her lifetime, I resolved not to trouble her with my unwelcome presence again.
I didn't have much contact with Florence from that point on. After Mother died the following year, she sent me an envelope full of old pictures from when she and Mother were young. Most I had never seen before, so I was grateful to have them, and I did write to tell her thank you. However, when someone starts sending treasured photos out to others, that's generally a sign that they think they're not long for this world. But I never knew what happened to her, until recently. A few months ago, I emailed St Stephen's parish, inquiring about Miss Stevenson, and though no one presently there knew her, they had a record of a service being held in her name sometime in 2004. That led to a search on a genealogy website, where I saw that Florence had, indeed, passed that year, at the age of 89.
My train ride to Glasgow that afternoon was a grim one. Only things I have a memory of was a troubling conversation with an agitated Indian man, and having the train break down in Lockerbie, Scotland, where Pan Am flight 103 had crashed only months before. (No sign of the disaster was left by that time, however.)
