The Bank Holiday now safely behind us, it was down to business - driving too slow and crawling suspiciously around old churchyards.
Sharon spent her morning coffee time plotting out the day's route. She was a little disappointed by the room; there was mold around the bathroom fixtures, which I wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't pointed it out to me, and it may have been less of a deal had she not been suffering from a stubborn upper respiratory grunge had been sending her into hacking and sneezing fits for the prior three weeks. We'd hoped it would have lifted by the time we got to the UK, but no dice. If anything, the airports and strange beds and jet lag probably jolted it back into gear, and a moldy bathroom wasn't likely to help matters.
We said something about the bathroom to the Surly Desk Clerk on our way out that morning. Don't think it cheered her up. I made a speculative remark to Sharon about the one thing I thought might cheer her up, but I won't repeat it here. In part because it was pretty rude, and in part because deep down I don't think even that would have buoyed her demeanor. Did I mention we'll probably stay somewhere else if/when we make it back to York?
The Buzzard Sisters were planted at the same table, in the same positions - maybe they spent all night there - in the garden. We said good morning on our way to the car.
Stamford Bridge, which is
not to be confused with the immense football (soccer)
stadium in Chelsea, which coincidentally nearly backs up to
Brompton Cemetery (England is small), is a village 7 miles to the east of York. The place bears some event-name gravity in English history; it was here in 1066 that
Harold Godwinson, then King of England,
fought and defeated an army of invading Norwegians, by some estimates effectively snuffing out the 300-year Viking scourge once and for all. (Well, not really, but we won't go into that.)
 |
| Harold's guys at Stamford Bridge, Sept 25 1066 - droppin' steel on the Vikings and falling into the river |
It is also notable for being Harold's last military victory before heading south and getting his clock cleaned by
William The Conqueror at Hastings, which ushered in the Norman Period and by most measures essentially marked the birth of the
nation of England. Whatever it meant to be English before the Norman Conquest rallied with Norse-spanking pride at Stamford Bridge, and ended in guess-we-gotta-learn-French barely three weeks later at Hastings.
Stamford Bridge is a pretty unassuming little place; we were headed toward
St John the Baptist church - a not particularly historic (built in 1868) church, in a
very historic village. We went over a little bridge - I don't know if it was
the bridge - and pulled up to the church. There was a guy mowing the churchyard. The church was locked (0 for 1), so we shot the pleasant but undistinguished churchyard in the harsh morning sun,
 |
| St John the Baptist - Stamford Bridge |
 |
| St John the Baptist - Stamford Bridge |
 |
| St John the Baptist - Stamford Bridge |
 |
| St John the Baptist - Stamford Bridge |
 |
| St John the Baptist - Stamford Bridge |
...debated briefly on asking the grounds-guy if he had a key, decided against it and took off. We never made it into the town centre.
The next place, bearing the endearingly unexpected name of
Bugthorpe, was further east off the A166 and deep in the expansive (England is big) farm countryside of the East Riding of Yorkshire. The church was pretty easy to find. With a population of about 100, Bugthorpe is tiny; a couple dozen modest (and mainly modern) homes along Main Street, surrounded by farms yawning off toward the gently sloping horizon,
St Andrew's standing on a small hill right on the main drag. As in most English villages, the church tower is the tallest structure in town.
 |
| St Andrew's - Bugthorpe |
We pulled up in front of the post office, there was a sign hanging in the window saying they were out to lunch and would be back at 1PM.
 |
| Come back later - lunchtime at the Bugthorpe Post Office |
It was a few minutes after noon. The village was quiet - the only movement around us was some farm equipment in a field a half mile away. The mourning doves cooed from the trees. It was actually a little eerie.
We went up the door of the church; the place is a
Grade 1 listed building, Saxon in origin, and a little dour even in the warm midday summer sunshine.
 |
| St Andrew's - Bugthorpe |
There was a sign on the door saying that the keyholder was across the street at the Post Office. And they were out to lunch. (0 for 2). Timing is everything.
We shot the cemetery, and left.
 |
| St Andrew's - Bugthorpe |
 |
| St Andrew's - Bugthorpe |
 |
| St Andrew's - Bugthorpe |
A tiny village in the middle of nowhere, we were surprised to see Bugthorpe's name reappear later, in a pretty unlikely place.
The deserted medieval village,
Wharram-Percy, was next. Administered by
English Heritage, who provide a short-version timeline of the place on their website, this one sounded promising.
But first we had to find it.
No comments:
Post a Comment