From the sugarbeet factory chimney, 2006

The 1979 walk past various factories no longer in existence has reminded me of another walk ‘from the archives’, though in this case a mere eight years ago. From 2006: Sugar beet and Lammas lands. ‘Deep topography’, and some very handsome desire lines in low November sun.

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It’s an exciting online resource, and is clearly getting a lot of traffic already. It may still be running slowly when you visit, as it was when I did – its servers have been strained by what is clearly a massive number of visitors. But it’s definitely worth persevering with.

It seems a view of the Minster and the historic core is obligatory, but it doesn’t change much, that Minster. Far more interesting, perhaps, are the factories and other features on the periphery. Such as these two views, from slightly different angles –

The Poppleton Sugar Beet Factory, York, 1928

The Poppleton Sugar Beet Factory, Clifton Ings and the North Riding of Yorkshire Psychiatric Hospital, York, 1930

They also have images of the Terry’s factory, including –

Terry’s Chocolate Factory, York, 1926

It’s brilliant that these images have been preserved for so long, and are now preserved digitally and made available online.

More on Britain from Above – 1 July 2012

www.britainfromabove.org.uk

More views of York from www.britainfromabove.org.uk

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The factory so well known to York folk, with its landmark chimney, pictured over a flooded ings, in its last ‘campaign’. As well as giving employment to so many people, for decades it gave a distinctive odour to our autumn and winter air. As mentioned previously on this site – a few times. The photo above was included on a page from 26 November 2006.

Five years on, do you miss it?

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26 November 2006

I’m trying to avoid the Christmas shoppers, so I’m going the other way. As far away as possible. I started thinking I’d have a quick late afternoon dash around the “Lammas Lands”. It turned into a surprisingly interesting riverside wander, all watery, green and blue, the light reflected from unexpected lakes.

Down here by Clifton Bridge, the river is up. Well, the whole river is up, obviously, not just this bit. It’s all bigger and wider.

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god – sullen, untamed and intractable

T S Eliot – The Dry Salvages

(If you’re interested, its added wideness can be seen by comparing it with a photo from a few weeks ago, taken from exactly the same place – see the second photo down on Sugar beet and Lammas Lands.)

When I was here a few weeks ago the land here was dry – well, as dry as any earth is in the late autumn. But now the ings are filled with pools of water, reflecting the sky. Here just behind the flood gates, with the factory on the horizon behind. Late in the afternoon, as the light fades, it’s good to have a double helping of blue sky, above and below.

I marched along happily for some distance, intending to go through Rawcliffe Meadows, but was stopped en route abruptly by the waters, covering the path ahead. I tentatively attempted to cross, but wimped out once the water started lapping over my boots. Turning back, I met a couple walking their dog. They were properly kitted out, with large wellies on (just the couple, not the dog). They all fearlessly crossed the flooded path. I’d just got into my stride, and was looking forward to getting further away from the the confines of the city. But I didn’t fancy wading, without the appropriate footwear.

But it was worth coming down here, to see this unexpected view. All the water in unexpected places, gulls and other birds settling here, and the late afternoon sky all dramatic and moody behind the factory. And that chimney again, chugging out the steam of the last Campaign.

The floodwater here has all collected on this ings land since my last visit. The landscape has altered dramatically, within a few weeks.

Back on the other side of the floodbank, the river’s normal edge defined by the shrubs and trees, ducks make the most of the extra water. They’re relaxing, the way they glide along, though of course under the water their little legs are going furiously.

And while I was watching them, my little brain was working – not exactly furiously – but I was thinking about how susceptible we are to these rises in the river level.

I headed back along the river path, towards the city centre. I didn’t really want to go there, but I needed some money from the cash machine. I was glad of the open space of the riverside, while psyching myself up for the approaching clamour of town. Here’s the boathouse on the river path. I think it belongs to St Peter’s School. Most things around here do. They’ve even managed to acquire a public footpath.

After the St Peter’s School playing fields, the riverside area opens out again to common land. This open space seems to have many different names. The Ordnance Survey map calls it Clifton Long Reach. The Environment Agency’s documentation on the York flood defences calls it Lower Bootham. My friend Vanessa has always known it as “Paddy’s Pitch”. I think I prefer that.

The Minster is visible on the horizon. When you see it across this green open land, you can imagine what it might have been like for our medieval ancestors, approaching the city on foot.

Viewing the top of the Minster over lots of green land and trees, with York quite small and defined in its boundaries, before it spread out so widely from its original centre, and got surrounded by Monks Cross, Clifton Moor, a designer outlet and a ring road.

Most of us like walking by water, I guess it’s because it’s relaxing. Even more relaxing today, with all this extra water on areas that are usually grassland. Gulls are here – not our usual birds. This morning, at home, standing in the garden, I heard their strange screeching call above. We call them seagulls, but of course they’re not always hanging out by the sea. Here they’re making the most of the unexpected water on these flat riverside ings.

I didn’t expect to find anything interesting once I’d got diverted away from Rawcliffe Meadow and had to turn back. But the natural areas are always changing. Finding these unexpected lakes meant seeing new reflections, and new bird life. The gulls were gliding on the water, occasionally bickering, taking off and landing again. The sun had emerged from behind the moody clouds, and with no buildings to obscure it, it was strong and bright, here on the riverside.

People walked by, on the riverside path. Two boys were playing football on the drier part of the grass. A dog ran into the unexpected lake, frightening the gulls, and they took off, then settled again. Trains passed on the other side of the river, crossing the points, pulling in to York station.

On the ings further up, by the factory, it had looked as if the light was fading for the day. But it reappeared from under the low clouds, strong and warm.

Here on this smaller ings area of Paddy’s Pitch, there’s another large earthen floodbank, curving around between the riverside area and the houses and school buildings behind. The floodbank creates a kind of bowl, which seemed to catch the sun and hold it, as it slid towards the horizon.

A woman sitting on a bench right on the riverbank seemed to have chosen her seat deliberately. The sun was right in front of her as it sank lower, and no trees on that area of the bank obscured it. This sun worship seemed appropriate, so I stood under a nearby tree, facing the same way.

Standing about in the middle of an open space for no reason can make you look a bit weird, I guess. But then I’m sure I often do. And I don’t care. I resisted hugging the tree, however.

I’d been expecting nothing from this walk, and felt like I’d ended up with everything. Proving my recent theory that the best way to cope with the shorter days at this time of the year might be to dash about a bit more, out in the open air.

Leaving the green of Paddy’s Pitch, and continuing along the riverside path, the sun was sinking lower behind the buildings of the National Railway Museum, which we’ve been proud guardians of since the 1970s. Close by, the York Eye, a more recent addition. I’ve got no sense of pride about it, but maybe other people have. I’ve not really taken to that name The York Eye. “That big wheel thingy”, I usually call it, and everyone knows what you mean. I guess I might get around to going on it sometime. For now, here it is, silhouetted on the horizon, with some geese in the foreground. One of these was being harrassed by a dog as I passed, and put up a spirited and rather hissy defence. I like all these birds about, on and around the high river. More interesting than that wheel thing.

Further up, approaching the town centre, and Lendal Bridge, the paths were covered in mud, so I guess the river had been higher. It was just lapping at the edges of this raised walkway area, with the lower path that’s usually visible completely underwater. A piece of tree appeared to have been carried by the swollen river and had stuck here.

When the light sinks lower only certain buildings catch its last rays. Here is Lendal Tower, recently refurbished.

It’s an appropriate place to end this flood/water-related wander, as Lendal Tower was the building that housed York’s first waterworks, centuries ago. Originally part of the city’s fortifications, and built around 1300, it became the city’s waterworks in the 17th century, and remained as such until the waterworks moved to Acomb Landing in 1846.

English Heritage records that it is built of magnesian limestone, “much re-used and including carved fragments of canopy, finial and other mouldings from the ruins of St Mary’s Abbey.”

Historical facts aside, it looks beautiful, doesn’t it? And a good sunny image to end with, in this dark season.

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6 November 2006

It’s late autumn in York. The sun is low in the sky, the daylight hours are short, the leaves are turning and falling.

There’s another sign of autumn here. There’s not just a chill in the air now, but a pungent and familiar smell. Many hate it, but I love it. The unmistakeable odour from the sugar beet factory, near the side of the Ouse, between Acomb and Clifton. This chimney pumps out its emissions (mainly water vapour, apparently) with gusto, during each autumn/winter Campaign. This is the last year we’ll have the familiar factory smell in the autumn air. I still can’t believe it, but this is another factory that’s soon to close.

Its closure was announced months ago, and perhaps it’s daft, but I felt quite emotional about it. Perhaps it feels like too much is disappearing too fast around here.

So rather than just stand on the back doorstep and smell the sugar beet smell in this last seasonal Campaign, I thought I’d pay the place a visit. Not as dull as it sounds – as the journey involved a marvellous energetic walk along Clifton Ings, on a sunny November morning. Starting here, at Clifton Bridge, where beyond the curve of the river there’s the admittedly not particularly beautiful factory, and its wonderfully odourful chimney.

The concrete riverside path leads to a metal gate and cattle grid, and framed by trees and lit by the low morning sun, all this concrete ahead looks almost handsome. There’s a flood barrier here, and beyond it the great bulk of the factory. I’m trying to imagine what it will look like when these trees frame a view of yet more flats. When everywhere we look we see another block of flats. I think we’d better start preparing for this glorious apartment-filled future.

Here we are by the flood gates, where the concrete path/cycle track curves round this mound, bearing off to the right, a nice smooth surface for cyclists and walkers. But I love these paths here straight ahead, the kind that are made not by local authorities but by people’s feet. I’ve heard these called “desire lines”, because they show where people really want to go. And here, many have seen the path as unnecessarily curvy and a rather long-winded way to get onto the Ings, so they’ve just gone straight ahead up the slope.

I looked at this and thought of Robert Frost’s poem about the diverging roads: “…I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference.”

Though it won’t make much difference here – unless you slip on the muddy incline.

Once on the slope, I could see the flood plain stretching into misty morning greenness and blueness, and ahead this beautiful curve, where the flood bank follows the curve of the river.

I’ve walked along here once or twice before, but usually go the other way, towards Rawcliffe Meadow, and I’ve never seen it at this time of the year, with the sun so low, and so bright.

It’s the low light I guess that brings out the contours of the land. These are man-made contours, of course, part of the flood defences. The flood gate is opened when the river is high to let the flood water onto the flat land beyond this raised bank. Man-made or not, it’s visually very satisfying, and I’ve never noticed before.

On the horizon, as I rounded the curve, the waterworks at Acomb Landing just visible. This dates from the mid-nineteenth century, my research tells me. As you get close to it, you can hear dogs barking, as the RSPCA home is also here. And you can hear trains, as there’s a main line here on the other side the river.

Have I mentioned before that I’m descended from many generations of railwaymen? . . . probably. Anyway, I always feel happy when I hear the sound of trains. Down here on the Ings it’s a strange mixture – a vast expanse of open land that makes you feel like you’re miles away from a city, but the noises of the city so obvious too.

Clifton Ings is an ancient flood meadow, recorded in the Domesday Book. During the medieval period, common rights of grazing saw the meadows opened to livestock around Lammas Day – 1 August. From this association the Ings were known as Lammas Lands. A romantic-sounding name, and one I think I’ll use in the future. I like the sound of “going for a walk in the Lammas Lands”.

Another interesting part of this area’s history is that the Ings were the official venue for York races, in 1709, until around 1730, when the tendency of the land to flood meant the races moved to the Knavesmire, where, of course, they’re still held.

As the river straightens out again, the flood bank does too, and extends forward for a pleasing distance. Here we’re looking back towards the city. On the horizon, not very clear because it’s against the morning sun, the Yorkshire Wheel. An important Norwich Union sponsored contribution to our city’s leisure and tourism industry. Norwich Union have recently announced that they too are about to make lots of local people redundant. Never mind, eh, at least we’ve got a big wheel to go round and round on when we’re bored.

Looking across to the other side of the river, where our local sugar processing factory churns out its steam. I think these buildings are part of it – though I guess they could be part of the waterworks, but they looked rather beautiful, in a desolate kind of way, between the trees and reflected in the river. I started to notice the noise too – factory noise, and the passing trains still. Like things were happening – real, ordinary, everyday things.

Soon there will be other noises here – demolition, then the familiar noise of the building site. I do hope there are lots of people round here training for the construction industry.

“York Sugar Factory, built in 1926, plays a major role in the prosperity of the area, as an employer ratepayer and a user of local services,” says the British Sugar website.

So it’s been there for 80 years, its landmark chimney pumping out that familiar smell. As children, we used to find the occasional sugar beet sometimes by the side of the road, where it had fallen from the passing lorries. It looked a bit like a potato, and covered still in a film of earth. We used to imagine that if we took it home to our mum she’d be able to boil it up in a pan and turn it into a bowl of sugar.

The numbers actually employed in the factory are quite small, but the knock-on effect of the imminent closure will be massive, particularly for the growers of sugar beet in the area. In reports I’ve read, the number of growers seems to vary widely from 790 to 1,500 – but even at the lower figure, that’s a vast impact in the region.

The most sickening thing with all these closures and job losses – the spin. The gloss they put on situations, in the press releases. I looked at the British Sugar website, to see what they’d said when they announced the closure of this factory and another in Shropshire. The headline? “Plans to ensure long term future of UK beet sugar industry announced”.

The company denied strongly that the closures were driven by the desire to make the most of high land values.

It’s difficult not to start ranting about the way things are going in this city, in terms of factory closures and redundancies. Maybe later. For now – I carried on walking along the floodbank.

Just up from the factory, the river looked as calm as ever, and the sunlight got warmer and as high as it was probably going to get on a day at this time of the year. Fishermen were sitting on the river bank.

I turned right here, before I got as far as the bypass, which I could see ahead of me. Turning right takes you into the Rawcliffe Meadows area, where helpful signs provide information on the environmental management of the area and its wildlife. Another concrete cycle track/path leads you back towards Clifton. Or, if you prefer grass and earth under your feet, there’s a path here on top of another section of flood bank. I chose this one – the road less travelled – or at least, the route on which you’re less likely to get mown down by speedy cyclists.

For maps of this area, and more information, see the recently published Green Places Guide, available from local bookshops.

Background information

The Friends of Rawcliffe Meadows

“York staff are particularly incensed because the factory has won many awards for its environmental record and British Sugar gave a commitment to retain jobs less than six months ago.” British Sugar to shut two refineries – Guardian, 4 July 2006

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Lisa @YorkStories

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