It’s the ’shortest day’ today, the winter solstice. Usually on 21 December, sometimes on 22 December, as this year. This is perhaps why I woke up at 5am, and am now sitting at my computer at 8am. My desk faces east, and I can see the sky lightening, all pale and hopeful on the horizon, with a breeze blowing the grey clouds away.

I think I’ll be too busy to go out with my camera today, but my page from a wander on the 2004 winter solstice is still on this website.

It was I think this day in 2003 that my first digital camera arrived, from amazon.co.uk. A Christmas present to myself, it cost £173. I took lots of pictures of the Christmas tree, the fireplace, our Christmas dinner … and then in January went off wandering up Marygate.

There are now around 380 pages on this site – 105 of them compiled in that first year.

The first year it was driven by my enthusiasm, since then it’s been supported by your emails, as without the positive comments I receive I doubt I would have continued this project. Thank you for your kind words.

This site continues to be independent, and ad-free, but thanks to book sales I hope to be able to afford to renew the domain name next month …

Christmas is of course approaching, and so I’d like to wish everyone happy festivities and good cheer.

I’m hoping to add updates over the Christmas and New Year period, so please pop by if you’re wanting a break from sitting with the family watching The Sound of Music.

all the best
Lisa

The post Solstice appeared first on York Stories.

16 April 2006

Hurrah, it’s spring. Here are some daffodils on the bar walls, on Queen Street near the station, photographed during a long and winding wander through York.

I always expect public holidays to have really disappointing weather – maybe because I remember so many that have been like that. But this Easter Sunday the weather was great and York was full of happy looking folk milling about, many heading for the new big wheel.

Above left – the beautiful arches of the station’s curved roof. The photo above right shows the city walls with their daffodils through the frame of York’s Railway Institute buildings, where we’d gone to have a look at an old water tank. Yes, we do have glamorous days out, don’t we.

The wheel is visible from many places. No doubt the novelty will wear off, but at the moment it’s exciting every time you get a different view – as here, when I saw it for the first time over the top of the station, by the corner of the city walls. I liked the combination of the stonework, the station, the daffodils and the wheel, but unfortunately just as I raised my camera to capture it, lots of people deliberately drove into the photo from every conceivable direction, just to ruin the whole thing.

Doesn’t everything look so much better against a big blue sky. Here’s Micklegate Bar – its impressive outer face, welcoming everyone entering from the south. Well, actually, it was originally not there to welcome people but to keep them out. Still, we’re a lot more friendly these days, honest. Though we didn’t like the people who were clambering about on the walls, squashing the daffodils . . .

And here’s a rare thing – Blossom Street with no traffic – well, one car. The last time I saw this was Christmas Day. On this occasion, it’s not because there’s no traffic on the roads, it’s because it’s all squashed up around the corner in Queen Street (see above), which was absolutely choc-full. I found this traffic-less state on Blossom Street rather unnerving – like the Queen was coming. (She normally makes her approach this way, and gets serenaded by trumpeters on Micklegate Bar (which is visible at the end of the road, in the distance)).

We’re at Rowntree Park – its handsomest bit. By the lake, this sweet building, with a dovecote in the side. White doves were preening in the entrance.

The rest of the park was busy with people of all ages. There were also people feeding the geese, even though there are signs asking people not to feed the geese. There’ll be letters to the press about it, no doubt. And god help us if any of the wildfowl die – DEFRA will be expected to arrive within minutes.

Exiting the park, and turning right, we approached Millennium Bridge, a busy, buzzing spot. There was a continuous stream of people crossing the bridge, loads more approaching, people on bikes, people walking dogs. It reminded me of the 18th century (no, younger readers, I wasn’t alive then) when I believe the custom was to promenade up the riverside – on the other side – a section we’re coming to soon.

On the opposite bank, heading back towards the town centre, there’s this odd little building called the Pikeing Well or Lady Well, designed by the famous York architect John Carr in 1752.

There is a well in there – you can see it through the gate if you peer in, though it doesn’t look very impressive filled with empty lager cans, but then what would. In the old days, before people treated it like a litter bin, the waters were said to be good for sore eyes. I could do with its help now as I’ve been looking at this screen for hours.

The pathway along the river bank, looking along the river Ouse, towards the town centre. Beautiful blue sky and even the river looks clean. And lots of new April green.

In the 18th century the people of York used to walk along the riverside here, promenading in their finery. We had no finery, just our usual scruffy clothes, but we had just as fine a time.

Approaching the Blue Bridge, across the Foss, at the confluence, where the Ouse and Foss meet. That floodgate thing in the distance is suddenly surprisingly handsome – never noticed that before.

Regarding the confluence of the rivers, this is one of three things I remember learning about in geography at school – another was that the limestone from the bar walls came from Tadcaster. The other thing was about oxbow lakes – never found one of those though.

As we approached the city centre, on the place that we always called St George’s Field – though for at least the last twenty years it’s been a car park – the fair is here.

Around the perimeter were lorries and caravans – including this rather striking lorry, decorated with pictures of ladies with unfeasibly long legs.

Near to the "We Will, We Will Rock You" lorry above we caught a glimpse of a slumbering monster, apparently forgotten behind the main show. Frankenstein was lounging about like a broken thing – but we all know the story, don’t we, and he doesn’t look exactly relaxed, does he – look at that scary hand. Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid. Okay, you’re not, never mind, let’s move on.

Back in the busy shopping streets – here’s a photo of the recent development on Spurriergate – covered with hoardings and still in progress during the Christmas holidays, but fully open for business now – though not sure if it was open on Easter Sunday. Still, it looks okay, and better than the grey concrete thing that was there before.

This wander started with flowers, so let’s end with them too. In the Museum Gardens, there’s a large bank of daffodils, roped off, to stop invasion from the daffodil squashers mentioned above. The display was looking a bit tired, but my attention was drawn to the contrasting blue of these anemones, nestled behind a young tree, and still looking fresh. With these flowers I wish all visitors to this site a happy springtime season, full of bounce and vitality.

The post Easter Sunday, 2006 appeared first on York Stories.

25 December 2005

I normally hibernate as much as possible through winter – which is probably why I’m only just adding this festive page in April. But I’m glad we went for a little wander into York after Christmas lunch, as it meant I got to see Father Christmas. This is a lovely snapshot of the Minster’s west front in winter sunlight. But look! There’s Father Christmas climbing up the front of that building! Or is he climbing down? Anyway, there are obviously some good people on High Petergate – the kind that Santa visits – the kind that like to cheer other people up.

Other festive figures were spotted on the balcony of this riverside building near Ouse Bridge. While St Sampson’s church was decorated with the more conventional (& rather handsome) Christmas wreath.

The new shopping development on the corner of Spurriergate is still obviously under construction, with hoardings around the lower parts, but its main bulk is in place. Windows on one side already bear the mark of well-known retailer H&M. There’s no one out shopping today though, of course, not even window shopping. The streets are almost deserted.

In fact, the very desertedness of the streets makes them worth a photo, despite the fading light. Here’s Micklegate Bar, from the inner face, looking downwards to Blossom Street. The original uncropped photo did show one solitary figure on the right in a red coat, (maybe Santa again), but there’s no one else around, and, through the arches, just one car at the traffic lights.

In this respect – hardly any cars – I agree with the sentiment in that famous festive song – I wish it could be Christmas every day.

The post Christmas Day, 2005 appeared first on York Stories.

13 November 2005

Service
of remembrance, in the Memorial Gardens, York, Sunday 13 November 2005.

I’ve
not joined the Remembrance Sunday commemorations in the city centre before.
Like many people of my generation – those of us of a left-wing tendency
anyway – I’ve often felt that the ceremonial part of it rather glorified
war. I always kept the two minutes’ silence, but never before with crowds
of other people who had gathered for that purpose. But I found it to be
a moving and thought-provoking morning.

I
arrived just before 11pm on the opposite side of the river, by Lendal Tower.
I’d lost track of the time, but the cannon fire from the memorial gardens
on the opposite bank certainly focussed my mind. It seems though that a
huge noise like that isn’t enough to bring everyone to attention. Most people
assembled on the riverbank fell quiet, observing the traditional silence,
but a group of women walking past us seemed totally oblivious, chattering
on.

Silence
seems an appropriate way to mark loss of life. That’s how you feel, when
you lose someone, like the world has stopped, or if it hasn’t, then it should.
All the frippery, clamour and racket of ordinary life should just cease,
for a while, in acknowledgement.

Usually,
for our particular and personal losses, it doesn’t. But when so many people
are lost at one time, silence is the only way to acknowledge the enormity
of it. The losses of war are so vast and so often pointless that we have
to keep on falling silent every year, in our ritual way, to realise how
many have died on our behalf, and in our name. And because we carry on going
to wars we have more and more war dead to remember.

After
the silence, there was another shot from a cannon, with associated ground-shaking,
accompanied by me jumping up a bit in the air, rather startled. I don’t think I was the only one.

People
started to move, heading towards the memorial gardens, where crowds were
already gathered, and where hymns were sung and prayers read.

Men
and women in military uniform were gathered around the memorial in the gardens,
while others were at the edge of the park, looking after what I assume was
the piece of military hardware that had fired just recently. As I’m such
an ignoramus it took me a while to realise this – I think that I was expecting
a cannon like those old-fashioned ones on ship’s decks, centuries ago.

There’s
a massive block of expensive new apartments next to the Memorial Gardens.
The side facing the gardens is full of balconies, and plants in pots, and
garden furniture. I looked up at it to see if any of the residents were
sharing in the event. There was one lady, of middle-age, looking
out from her high vantage point. All the other balconies seemed to be empty.

After the ceremony, the participants marched back towards the Eye of York, and many in the crowd, including me, followed.

It’s very difficult to walk alongside a loud marching band without starting
to walk in time, and once you start doing that, you want to start swinging
your arms too. I did resist the urge – as if you’re on your own, dressed
in casual clothes, it’s difficult to march in a military style without looking
a bit mad.

But
along Lendal, as I marched/walked past the end of an alleyway, a group of
young girls were gathered, and the nearest one to me broke into an enthusiastic
and rather cheerleader-like march, swinging her arms madly, and the other
girls joined in, all laughing. A
woman was looking out of a window at the Judge’s Lodgings, smiling. It all
seemed very jolly, probably as a result of the rousing music and the brightness
of the sunlit morning.

At
the end of Lendal, the sunshine was particularly bright in the open space
of St Helen’s Square, in front of the Mansion House. The Mayor and other
dignitaries were assembled on the steps. There were so many people gathered
that it was difficult to see the parade passing, and so I just stood behind
them, giving up the idea of taking any photos. Times like that I wish I
was very tall, instead of a shortie. I got a nice photo of the back of a
blonde woman’s head. And this photo of a policeman’s back.

Then above the music – which I think was the very jolly ‘Colonel Bogie’
– came the sound of applause, and I realised that the people around me were
making the sound – and that they were applauding the ex-servicemen who were
now passing in front of us. Over the shoulders of the people in front of
me I saw glimpses of the elderly gentlemen in their uniforms and in these
glimpses I was conscious of the different world they knew, and felt overwhelmed
for a moment and had to look down and pretend to fiddle with my camera for a while
until I regained my composure. It might be something to do with traditional British reserve, but I’ve never felt at ease with the idea of crying openly in a crowd full of strangers.

I
wonder what it’s like, to have lived through and fought through these wars
we remember today, and to see how the generations coming after haven’t always
respected the values you felt you were fighting for. In some ways we’ve progressed, in others we haven’t, but what you call progress does of course depend on your politics, and personal perspectives.

In
the 80s, when I was growing up, I couldn’t have joined the remembrance
day ceremonies. All I knew was that people around me seemed
to glorify war too much, and tabloid newspapers ran excited, supposedly patriotic
headlines about the Falklands conflict, and Margaret Thatcher seemed to
like being photographed on a tank.

But here we are in 2005, and I’m watching a ceremony for ex-servicemen and women, and in the face of their experiences my own views seem irrelevant. I am just an observer. As you get older I guess you can separate the politics from the personal, from the people who own the real stories. If I’d gone through the experience of fighting for my country, I’d expect some respect too. For all the violence I had to witness and the dirt and blood and watching my friends suffering around me.

So here in the city of York, in England, on a sunny November morning, it’s about the faces of the men
and women passing by in the parade, and the things they saw and carry with
them.

And not just those marching, but all those affected by war. People like my mother who were evacuated to live with families who perhaps weren’t always kind and welcoming. And her older female relatives, so many of whom had lost their husbands in the First World War. And the firefighters and others working here in the Second World War, trying to save burning buildings during the blitz on our largest cities and the Baedeker raid here in York. Like Arthur Broadhead, who was killed on the night of the raid, while working for the National Fire Service, and is buried in York
Cemetery.

Later
in the day I passed the war memorial on Station Rise. At the front of the
memorial were the poppy wreaths shown below, carefully and ceremoniously
placed in a neat line. Behind them, these flowers. Just the one bunch, placed
on the separate plaque set there after the Second World War. A handwritten
note was tucked underneath.

Two contrasting images symbolise the day for me, and what’s important now, here, in 2005. The war veterans who fought for freedom, dressed in their uniforms, passing the dark red front of the Mansion House. And the carefree teenage girls, larking around and laughing in a sunlit alleyway, enjoying it.

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November 2005

There hasn’t been a free council-arranged Bonfire Night firework display for years. This page records the city’s display in 2005. Certainly memorable – but mainly because of the stampeding confusion of people trying to find it.

 

York fireworks display – 5 November 2005. The event ended up as rather a farce, as the City of York Council wouldn’t tell anyone where the fireworks were going to be, leaving local people all confused and wandering into the centre of York, then dashing dangerously in vast numbers down Bootham when it became clear that the fireworks were at St Peter’s School. Which makes sense, as Guy Fawkes is one of their famous old boys (though way back in the school’s history, before it moved to Clifton and upset Clifton folk by closing a right of way through its grounds).

 

 

The fireworks were however enjoyed by many people who live in, or happened to be in, the Bootham and Clifton areas of York, and probably by anyone over the river in the Leeman Road area. It was also enjoyed by people at the York City FC social club, enjoying a post match drink. And I found myself at a window with a fine view of the display. It wasn’t enjoyed though by people nearby who had no warning, sudden devastating noise, and bits of firework landing in their gardens.

 

 

Select
this link to view an amateurish, soundless, quickly-cobbled together, hot-off-the-press,
bunged into free webspace Flash animation of the highlights of the evening’s
firework display from Guy Fawkes’ birthplace of York!

The post November 5th, 2005 appeared first on York Stories.

21 June 2005

This
year I went for a walk into York on the evening of the longest day, and took my camera with me, to mark the summer solstice with some photos of York’s buildings reflecting the evening sunlight.

7.55pm

I’m not sure how many people care about the arrival of the summer solstice. I don’t remember caring, or even noticing, when I was younger.

Maybe it’s since I started making a garden – to be horticulturally successful you need to be aware of seasonal changes and day length and the quality of the light. When the light is high in the sky in the middle of the year, it reaches further into the garden.

It also lights up the west front of York Minster, and makes it sparkle, late into the evening.

7.59pm

This
office building, by Lendal Bridge, is one of those modern buildings that
some people admire and others dislike. I took this photo during a rare moment
when Lendal Bridge was clear of traffic, and realise I like the building
because it’s so bright, with all that pale-coloured stone reflecting all
available light. There’s so much light now, at this time of year, that it’s
almost glowing.

8.03pm

After
crossing Lendal Bridge – (isn’t it good that we have all these bridges,
and don’t have to rely on a ferryman to get us across, as they used to in
the old days?) – I went up onto the city walls, heading in a westerly kind
of direction, towards where the sun would be setting, eventually. At Micklegate
Bar I noticed this collared dove, perched on the head of one of the carved
stone figures. Both similarly coloured, and both appearing to be soaking
up the warmth of the sun.

8.22pm

In Priory Street, having descended from the walls. An interesting jumble of rooflines and building
materials. A lovely curvy brick chimney, and above the slate roofs, the
ancient tower of St Mary Bishophill. And if you look to the more pointed
slate roof on the right, two wood pigeons perched on the top, back to back,
apparently warming themselves in the sunlight, like the dove on Micklegate
Bar.

8.29pm

I realised that as the sun got lower behind the buildings, there would be
fewer buildings still lit by the sun that I could photograph. On Priory Street a surprise highlight was this detail
on the front of a place of worship I’ve never thought of as particularly
handsome. But the glorious golden-ness of the longest day light has brought
out these details perfectly, on this Victorian building, now known as the
Rock Church.

8.31pm

And Holy Trinity Church, with that same
summer evening glow. Old stone – don’t you just love it? I hope so, as there’s
more of it coming up.

8.33pm

Back
towards the riverside, passing our grand old railway offices of York, a
hundred years old now and still very impressive, as they no doubt were when
built. It isn’t just those pale coloured limestone buildings that look good
in the evening sunlight.

8.39pm

Oh
what a beautiful thing. The light is sinking, but All Saints’ spire is still
all golden and glowing.

8.42pm

The Guildhall, on the side of the Ouse, facing the right way to pick up the sun’s late rays. Those red boats look brilliant here, against the stonework. I sat on a bench opposite and watched the river cruise boat drifting by, and worried about my camera, which didn’t seem to like the new memory card I’d just put in, and I thought this photo might not have been saved, and I was really annoyed, but then sat a bit longer, and looked at all this, and decided that it was all so beautiful that nothing mattered much at all.

And
as the sun set, its glow was rather spectacularly absorbed by the ironwork of Lendal
Bridge, which is very ornate, and painted in bright colours. I don’t
think though that I’ve ever seen them this bright. And look at that sky,
still blue.

8.53pm

And still light for a while yet.

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