We’re at the Old Vicarage again, with a journey to Silverdale scheduled for the evening. In the morning I walk back from Kirkby Lonsdale to the Old Vicarage.
A curious robin watches me from a tree by the Devil's Bridge, Kirkby Lonsdale
In the afternoon I walk up the back road in the direction of the village of Barbon which Sally says she used to walk to every day when she was a student, and worked in the Barbon Hotel. I don’t reach the village itself, but follow a path across fields signposted to Barbon, and reach a huge old house, which looks shuttered, empty and deserted, surrounded by trees and landscaped garden, in late afternoon sunlight.
I head for a gate to an avenue leading away from the house, to the road, and walk back that way.
The sky is blue and cloudless, there is no wind, although a storm is forecast for the evening. I hope that it will miss the Morecambe Bay area we’re driving to that evening.
**
Next morning, I’m out in the Old Vicarage gardens, taking a photograph of the snow-dusted Fells,
when I meet David the gardener, who has come to see if there’s been any storm damage. A large dead branch has fallen off one tree, and landed beside the wooden bridge over the beck. That whole tree’s dead as a dodo he says, I need to speak to Stephen about it, it has to come down, if that fell on someone, it would kill them instantly.
I tell him the power is still off in the house. We assumed the night before, when we got back, it was off in the whole village, as we hadn’t seen any lights. But we were so glad to get back. When we left the village hall at Silverdale, just as we were trying to back the car out of the gates, all the hall lights went out. They had been flickering off and on for the past half hour or so, and now they all went out. The wind, (Storm Arwen) which had been forecast, sprang up while we were inside the hall. (The gathering was to celebrate the launch of a poetry anthology entitled Lighting Out!) So there we were, in total darkness apart from the car headlights, the wind tugging at car doors, blowing our hair in our faces making it even harder to see, dry leaves swirling around, and the road, once we were safely out of the car park, littered with sticks, twigs and small branches, so we crunched along, forced to drive slowly. At one point, a tree had fallen across the road, but there was enough space to drive round it. Twice in the next few miles, big branches lay across the road, and Joe got out into the buffeting wind, and removed the branches. Once we left the narrow winding roads behind, and reached a main road, things were easier.
And so we were thankful to reach the house, standing solid and secure in the grounds, surrounded by madly swaying dark trees. And though the wind was whistling around it, there was no sense that it could crumble and crash in the teeth of the gale. Joe’s phone had a torch which we used to find candles, and fetch glasses from the kitchen to drink wine and apple juice. And Sally said – we can light a fire! It was already laid, just needed a flame from my lighter, wood piled on it, and light and warmth were there, as we sat around, talking and drinking. When it came time to go upstairs to the bedrooms, Joe missed his footing on the stairs, and just managed to keep his balance, but deposited large splashes of red wine on the carpet. So we found sponges to try, fairly ineffectually, to clean it up. Sally was giggling, found it funny, and Joe was profusely apologetic.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning, but two hours later, we were woken by an incredibly loud alarm. With our phone torches and candles we headed downstairs and located the source of the piercing sound, in the downstairs bathroom next to the front door. A panel of numbers underneath it, we tried several combinations of numbers to try to stop it but nothing worked. Joe used up most of the charge on his phone trying to get through to a number on the box, but when he finally did, the response was that they no longer had the contract, and suggested phoning a local electrician, not hugely helpful, as we had no numbers for such useful people. No number even for Sally’s brother, (whose house it is) as it was on her laptop which of course could not connect to the internet. No number either for David the gardener who said to me as I related the incident, that Sally should have called him. Even if she’d had the number, she told me later, she wouldn’t have called him at 3 am, her brother, yes, but not him!
Back upstairs, Sally said Joe should go up to the attic, and sleep there, the noise was much fainter, and we would simply close our doors, try to ignore the sound, and get back to sleep. And just as we had agreed this, the alarm stopped. I thanked the powers above. We all went back to bed.
In the morning, Sally drives Joe to the nearest train station where he would travel home to Leeds. (Although we hear later that his train was cancelled, and he has to wait a long time for a replacement bus.) I wander in the garden and meet the gardener, who comes in and looks at the offending alarm, and also at the box of trip switches. He has an air of calm authority, so I know that he will get things sorted once the power comes back on.
Breakfast is cereal and apple juice. When Sally returns, we pack the car with our things and the bags of books she’s picked up from someone doing a clear-out, and we head up the road to Carlisle, where I’ll catch a bus home. The sky is clear blue, and the Cumbrian Fells are coated with snow.
Carlisle’s central square, and the Lanes, are filled with shoppers clutching bright paper bags. But I’m not thinking of shopping, I’m badly in need of a coffee since I was unable to have one at the house before we left.
I’m waiting in line in a busy cafe when my suitcase-on-wheels inadvertently knocks over a sign warning that the floor is wet. The man behind me picks it up and I thank him. He is wearing a thick jacket, boots and shorts, yes shorts, his knees are bare.
It doesn’t look as if the floor’s wet now he says, though the sign might have been put there because of the slippy leaves. (There are a few leaves lying on the floor.) He then tells me he played a game of pick up the leaves, using one hand, then the other. But the only ones left he says, were the damp ones, that stuck to the floor. I like his playful and friendly attitude. I like leaves I say, looking at the crispy ones that insist on floating through the door each time it opens. I like the way they insert themselves so easily, borne in on a breeze or a draught, and lie snugly on the floor as if they’d much rather be inside. More people come in, and the queue for coffee is growing.
You like leaves, he says, I have this leaf necklace, and he starts rummaging around in his pockets. Meantime, it’s my turn to order coffee and I go to the counter and put my order in. Once I’ve paid I turn back, and he shows me his necklace, made of golden-hued metal leaves. Very nice I say. Only thing is, he says, I can’t wear it, can’t get it over my head, it’s too big. He orders his coffee, then says to the girl behind the counter, I’ll be back in 5 minutes, I’ve just got to get to the bike shop before it closes.
By this time my coffee has arrived and as I leave the coffee shop, my hands wrapped round the warm container, I see him pushing his bike away, then he gets on and it’s moving slowly and silently, towards I presume the bike shop. I wonder if it’s an electric bike. I wonder at him riding it with knees exposed to the freezing air. I hope he finally gets his coffee, and manages to slip the garland of metal leaves over his head. Somehow.
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Love from Maureen and Paul