The North Yorkshire town
Where my ancestors toiled
In the nearby fields
And laboured
In the limestone quarry
Or – in one case – bent over smartly
As footman to the local Earl
Is now a pristine tourist destination
For posh Londoners
(Who like to hunt partridge, grouse and pheasant)
With high-end clothing shops
And luxury gift boutiques
Lining the old market square
Two wellness spas
And at least one pricey Micheline-recommended restaurant
Serving up the likes of Whitby crab
(with elderflower)
Or herb-fed squab
On a bed of
Black Pudding.
The oh-so pretty North Yorkshire town
Where my two-times great-grandmother
A tailor’s wife
Bore her ten children
And worked ‘til her death at 71
As a grocer
(So says the online documentation)
Now has food specialty shops as eye-pleasing as any in Paris or Montreal
With berrisome cupcakes and buttery French pastries
(Some gluten-free, some vegan)
Mild Wendsleydale cheese
(From the udders of contented cows)
Locally-sourced artisanal game meats
Hormone-free, naturally
And free-range hen’s eggs with big bright orange yolks
That light up my morning mixing bowl like little suns gone super-nova.
And, for the culturally curious
Packages of the traditional North Country oatcakes
(Dry like cardboard if you ask me.)
It cannot be denied
Nary a wild rose nor red poppy is out of place
In this picturesque
Sheepy place
3000 years old!
(Apparently)
Where my great-grandfather
During WW1
Managed the Duncombe saw mill
Supplying timber for telephone poles
And trench walls.
Where because of the highly variable weather
(I’m assuming)
Rainbows regularly arched over the hills and dales
From Herriotville to Heathcliffetown,
Back then
As they
Do now.
(At least I met with one as I drove into my ancestral town– and thought it a good sign.)
Off-season,
This is a town for locals
Not for overseas imposters like us.
I was told…
The natives drive only short distances as a rule
From dirtier, busier places
like Northallerton
(but an hour away)
Through the awesome
(no hyperbole here)
Primeval forests and heathery plateaus
Of the much storied Moors
On narrow snaking highways.
Wearing rainproof quilted jackets in boring colours
They walk their well-behaved dogs
Spaniels mostly
In and out of ice cream shops
And cafes
Or up and down
the daunting (to me)
muddy
….medieval
…………..Fairy
…………………….Staircase
…………………………………..along
…………………………………………..the Cleveland
…………………………………………………………………….Way.
To visit quaint Rievaulx
And admire the Grade II Heritage cottages
With their bewitching thatched roofs
And wisteria-laced windows
Where the skeleton of the old Cisterian monastery
Rules the blue horizon
Like a giant antique crustacean trapped in grim History.
(Unlike myself, they do not pay the ten plus pounds to visit the Monastery ruins.
“And would you like to donate an extra 75p to the National Trust?”
Sure. Why not?)
They just like to walk their dogs.
Yes, all is picture-perfect these days
(It’s early October in 2024)
In my ancestral town
In the North of England
Where at least two in my family tree
Travelled the Evangelical Circuit
From Carlisle to Whitby
Preaching thrift and abstinence
And other old-fashioned values
To men and women with calloused hands
And a poor grasp of the alphabet.
Except, maybe, for the Old Methodist Cemetery
*no entrance fee required
Just around the corner from our charming air bnb
Where the crows, flocking for winter (I guess)
Caw maniacally in the moulting trees
And a black cat might cross your path
(It did for me)
And the old tombstones jut out helter-skelter like crooked mouldy teeth
From the soft-sinking Earth under which some of my ancestors lie,
Mostly
,,,,,,,But
Not ,,,,,,,,
,,,,,,,,,Entirely
Forgotten.,,,,,,,,,,
Genealogy Ensemble 