The lilies are back

After a post-Covid absence of quite a few months, I am delighted to report that the lilies are back! That is, the huge vases of fragrant white lilies that have been scenting the air in Salts Mill's 1853 Gallery for many years. There are always so many bunches of them that the whole gallery is perfumed. It's such an evocative scent that I only have to catch a whiff of them anywhere and I am immediately transported in my mind to this wonderful old mill, one of my happy places. I've occasionally bought them to display at home, but the strong perfume is a bit overpowering in a small sitting room. Here, in the vast space of the gallery, the scent is pleasant and lends a wonderful ambience. The atmosphere and the lovely artworks, books and art materials lull you - almost drug you - into perhaps spending longer in there than you might have planned. I think the lilies are a poignant tribute to the late Jonathan Silver, the entrepreneur who rescued the mill from dereliction in the 1980s, but who sadly died in 1997. Salts Mill is now managed by his family. 

Not the Saltaire Festival

Current events have us all in a spin! This last weekend was meant to be the start of the annual, week-long Saltaire Festival. The death of HM The Queen and the consequent period of national mourning have caused many events organisers to postpone whatever they were planning, and the Saltaire Festival is one of the events impacted. I have read arguments from some people that it should have gone ahead; that the tradition of the Queen herself was always to remain steadfast and keep to her schedule, fulfil her promises as much as she could; that the many small businesses involved will be left with losses at a time when they already have so many pressures. Let's face it, there is also a certain element within the country that thinks the hereditary monarchy is surplus to requirements anyway, and is resenting the extensive coverage given to this story. However, I think most people feel it would probably seem wrong and somewhat disrespectful to continue with joyful celebrations at a time when most of us feel a bit sombre and reflective. We are mostly very conscious that we have been plunged into a hugely historic and significant time, a time that we should somehow strive as a nation to 'do well' because it will all be recorded in the archives for the future. 

Having said all that, it was rather a pity that Saturday was not the start of the Festival. It was a glorious day, warm and pleasant and there seemed more than the usual number of people out and about quietly enjoying the village and the park. The cricket match went ahead, the café was open, there was an art show, there was the open-air farmer's market and a horticultural show ... It felt all very British, somehow!

Joy and Peace

Joy, Peace, Hope, Love, Kindness, Grace - fine sentiments to wish over our communities, wherever we place ourselves. 

This colourful mural is outside our church, St Peter's Shipley, at the moment. I assume it was painted by our talented congregational member, Christine, as she has done several before for this noticeboard. 

Band of gold

Sunsets in Saltaire tend to be unspectacular affairs, since our position low in the valley means that the sun sinks behind trees and hills long before it produces much colour. Anyway, my view west is blocked by houses so I rarely notice even the good ones. I do, occasionally, take a short walk in the evening and since we are now getting to the time of year when the sun sets a bit earlier, I'm more likely to witness a pretty sky. Some of them are pink and pastel. This one was bands of gold, like banners across the sky. (And now I have a song in my head - Freda Payne,1970 - geesh! It's odd how I can remember lyrics from so far back and yet not recall why I've gone upstairs when I reach the top step!) 

Now that you're gone
All that's left is a band of gold,
All that's left of the dreams I hold
Is a band of gold.

Rest in Peace

As I'm sure the entire world has by now heard, the death was announced yesterday of HM Queen Elizabeth II. 

She has been our Queen literally for the whole of my life, acceding to the throne in February 1952. I was born in June 1952 and one of the earliest photos I have in my album is of myself, not quite a year old, waving a Union Jack flag on her Coronation Day in June 1953. My middle name is Elizabeth, as was common for many girls born in the early 1950s.

I have always been glad to live in a constitutional monarchy, though inevitably it throws up almost as many issues as it solves. It seems to me to be the best situation - or perhaps Queen Elizabeth herself made it the best. Whatever you think, it's hard to fault her sense of duty and her work ethic. (Just two days ago she was graciously dealing with our latest change of PM. One can't help but think perhaps it was a bit much for her at the age of 96.) 

I only ever actually saw her once, when my daughter obtained tickets in a ballot in 2013 to watch the Garter Day Ceremony procession at Windsor Castle, a very memorable occasion. My main recollection is how tiny the Queen was! I almost missed seeing her, as those around her (like the Duke of Cambridge, shown in the photo) were so much taller than she.

I have usually watched the major, televised ceremonial events: the Jubilees, the State Openings of Parliament, the Remembrance Day commemorations, Trooping the Colour, the royal weddings and so on. (You can say what you like about Great Britain but we do 'ceremonial' extremely well!) I suppose the next couple of weeks will be full of tributes and then, of course, the State Funeral. No doubt the Commonwealth and world leaders will be sending their best mourning suits to the dry cleaners, as I write. The plans will have been in place for years, tweaked and revised as various things have happened. 

There will be much reflection - on a long life well-lived, with wise moves and occasional mistakes, on its privilege and its duty. There will be much speculation about the future. At the most basic level, we will have to learn to sing 'God Save the King' from this day forward. As it is, it seems yet another hammer blow to all that we know and love about our country. These last few years have been so tough and the Queen remained a constant and somehow comforting presence.  

Rest In Peace, your Majesty. I am thankful to have been alive throughout your reign, living in peace, with relative stability and prosperity. It know it's been a privilege and not something to take for granted. I am grateful. 

My thoughts and prayers are with the Queen's family and close friends. (Heartbreaking to me that William and Harry have had to go to Balmoral, which will surely only serve to bring up distressing memories of learning there of their mother's death.) 

God Save the King. 

Blue sky bliss

I had a short walk down to Shipley, quite early one morning, to fulfil some small errands. It was such a beautiful morning: blue sky, pleasantly warm, not a hint of breeze. I inevitably decided to return home the longer, more scenic way along the canal... just because I could. Every time I come this way it reminds me of all those years of walking to work and I am always so grateful and thrilled that now I don't have to work and can please myself how I spend my time. Bliss! I'll never take that for granted. 

The scenes are familiar, yet there is always something new to notice. The new retirement home, built where a redundant factory used to be, is on the way to completion. It is, though, such a boring, unimaginative piece of architecture - albeit it has a nice view over the canal. 

It also has to look over at the increasingly decrepit former British Waterways warehouse, though even that made an interesting reflection on such a wonderful morning. 

The stretch of towpath beside Jane Hills has so much overgrown vegetation along the canal's edge that it feels more like walking through woodland! 

The old boatmen's cottages have been there for a lot longer than the surrounding office blocks and business units - though they are soon to have new neighbours. The former HMRC offices behind are being sold for residential development. 

Nearing Saltaire, the view of Salts Mill along the canal is always intriguing and enticing. There are several narrowboats moored in Saltaire at present. The current drought has caused such low water levels that much of the canal is closed to through traffic for the foreseeable future so boat dwellers are effectively stuck in quite small sections. 

I've never noticed shoals of fish near the surface before, though you see them jumping occasionally and there are often fishermen so I know there are fish. Perhaps they were enjoying the sunshine and warm water or perhaps the low water means there isn't enough oxygen? I don't know enough about fish to judge. 

I spotted a colourful small tortoiseshell butterfly on a buddleia. Nothing special - either butterfly or flower - but still lovely to see. 

Glasshouse

This charming scene bids me to photograph it year after year at this season. The chimney is, of course, the iconic main boiler-room chimney of Salts Mill, standing tall as it has done since the 1850s (though nowadays without the original carved stone finial at the top, which was removed for safety reasons). 

There have been allotments here too, for about the same length of time. Sir Titus Salt wanted to provide his community with everything they needed and, given that most of the village houses don't have gardens, some of the land was given over to allotments so people could grow food and get some recreation. This particular plot is tended by an elderly gentleman and has some good old-fashioned flowers, as well as some veg and fruit. When the gladioli and dahlias are in bloom, it always appeals to me. I guess it reminds me a bit of my grandfather's garden. 

Local heather

I didn't really get chance to go searching for heather this year but, on the Bank Holiday weekend, I did have a walk up to Shipley Glen. There is a small area up there where a few heather plants grow, although it often doesn't bloom at exactly the same time as the heather on the higher and more open moors. It was already fading. I do, however, quite like the colour as it fades from mauve and purple to a more pinkish brown hue. I'm sure there's a proper name for it. Dusty rose, perhaps? 

Ian Beesley Retrospective

There's a fabulous photography exhibition currently on display in the roof space (a former spinning shed) in Salts Mill. Called simply 'Life', it is a major career retrospective of the work of local social documentary photographer Ian Beesley. It's on until October 30th (check opening times) and I highly recommend it. 

It includes examples of Ian's work spanning 40 years, from a career that started inauspiciously when he was expelled from school! He started work at Esholt Sewage Works, where his colleagues urged him to find his passion and get educated. He discovered photography, attended Bradford Art College and then Bournemouth and Poole College of Art. He gained a Kodak scholarship for social documentation and began a lifelong study of the North's cultural and industrial heritage, and the people who populate it. He has gained numerous awards and his work is exhibited internationally and held in numerous collections. For all that, his modesty means that he isn't exactly a household name (unlike, for example, Martin Parr), which in some ways is a shame. (I had to smile at an article that was printed in one of the major newspapers some time ago, with an accompanying headshot purporting to be of Ian, the photographer. He notes that it is in fact a mugshot of a criminal by the same name! The newspaper's pictures editor messed that one up!)

His work includes projects in the last coal mines in the UK, our textile mills (including documenting the closure of Salts Mill as a working textile mill), studies of Bradford's streets and mills in the 1970s and 80s, and more recent collaborative projects that are mainly portraits - centenarians, children 'Born in Bradford', and projects researching the effects of dementia. Ian has a very down to earth persona and style, and the display is peppered with handwritten notes and observations, often wry and humorous, as well as displays showing how he develops, prints and hones his images. They are mostly black and white prints, with many - if not most - taken on analogue film. 

I first came across Ian way back in the 1970s, when I used to work with his sister. He was then just starting out and it has been interesting and heartwarming to see his gradual development into a world class photographer - whilst remaining very down to earth and approachable. 

To see some of the photos, click HERE. 

Some of the photos in the exhibition are linked with evocative poems by Yorkshire poet Ian McMillan. The two Ians have worked collaboratively for many years. Thus they document not only the demise of our heavy industries but the language that is getting lost along the way too. The punched steel sheets on the wall (above) list some of the trades that have disappeared: Carders, Casters, Combers, Fettlers, Doffers, Liggers, Tatlers, Burlers, Menders, Porers, Corers, Stampers, Mulespinners, Capsteamers, Slubbers and Fellmongers among them. 

As a descendant of several generations of coal miners and now living in this Victorian industrial village of Saltaire, where history pours out of the very walls, I found the exhibition poignant and moving. As I say, highly recommended. 

 

Sunday meditation: The sea

'The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.'  

Jacques Cousteau

'Our memories of the ocean will linger on, long after our footprints in the sand are gone.'

Unknown Author

'Take me to the ocean. Let me sail the open sea. 

To breathe the warm and salty air and dream of things to be' 

Erica Billups

A sunset to die for...

Sleights holiday 12

Whilst on holiday, I met with a couple of friends from my camera club, who now live in Whitby. They were kind enough to take me to one of their favourite spots for photography, the atmospheric Saltwick Bay, just south of Whitby. It has features galore with a partly submerged wreck, the Admiral Von Tromp, and several rocks and sea stacks in the bay, including the impressive Black Nab. It's a key site for finding fossils and Whitby jet. It is north-east facing and renowned for its 'double sun' effect at certain times of the year, when the sun both rises and sets over the bay. We were there for the sunset, which turned out to be absolutely spectacular. 

Like many sunsets, it started out quietly but extremely prettily, with peaches, pinks and delicate pale blues in the sky. One of the features of the bay is a shallow rock outcrop that gives rise to pools of water at low tide, pools that reflect and amplify the colours. 

I was mesmerised by the light show and ended up taking about sixty photos (!), so it has been hard to narrow them down to just a few favourites. (Next week I'll probably decide I prefer some of the others!) I've tried to show the progression of the colours as the sun sank down behind the rocks, though the top picture, taken about mid way through 'the show', is (so far) my overall favourite, I think.  

It was like watching a light show, hard to believe that the vibrant colours were natural and not some movie maker's technicolour fantasy. If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I'd find it hard to believe the saturation of some of the images but I honestly have not boosted the colours in processing. Apart from the Northern Lights Aurora in Iceland, I can't think that I have ever witnessed a more stunning natural spectacle in my whole long life. I shall always remember it, such a privilege to enjoy. Indeed, a sunset to die for - or at least one to make me die happy! 

We had then to stagger back up the steep path to the top of the cliffs in the near dark, though a huge, waxing gibbous moon did help. This August supermoon, full on the 12th, is known as the Sturgeon Moon, named, I gather, by Native Americans after the abundance of fish at this time of year. Anyway, we made it safely back to the car all in one piece. I certainly wouldn't have done the trip on my own so I am grateful that my friends suggested it, and we were well rewarded for our efforts. 

The garden's bounty

Sleights holiday 11

I enjoyed my evening rambles round the St Oswald Community's gardens very much. The views over the Esk valley are pleasant and, after dinner, the air temperature had generally cooled to something comfortable and bearable. Used to the bustle and hum of city suburbs, I'm always surprised by the peace and quiet here. It's not quite silence - you may hear a train, or an aircraft passing over. Sometimes the cattle moo, as if reminding you of their presence, or a fly will buzz right past your ear. Everywhere is so parched after the hot, dry summer that the desiccated grass crunched underfoot too, and there are already dry leaves on the ground. Autumn will come early this year, I guess.  

There were fewer pops of colour than I recall from last time, as some plants have already set seed. I visited in July, not August, last year. Still, there was plenty to aim my camera lens at. 

These plums, not quite ripe, were an extraordinarily vivid shade of violet. 

The seed heads of clematis look, comically, like little wigs. (The Tory MP Michael Fabricant springs to mind. 😆 )

Evening light

Sleights holiday 10

The mornings were fresh and still, with that trembling promise of a warm day, a sensation that I have generally only experienced on holiday abroad. By noon it was too hot for me and after lunch each day I retired to my room or to a shady spot in the garden, to read and doze. The evenings were glorious, with warm, golden light - enjoyed, it seemed, not only by humans but by the various animals, birds and insects with whom we share our space. 

When I arrived I was told I could enjoy all of the large gardens belonging to the Community 'but, if you arrive at a cow, you've got as far as you can go.' There was, thankfully, a sturdy fence at the boundary. I did stop there. The cattle (young bullocks I think, rather than cows) did not quite stop at the fence, reaching over to browse the apples on the trees in the orchard. They were remarkably friendly and curious. If they weren't at the fence when I arrived, they soon ambled over companionably.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen garden, young Peter Rabbit looked quite guilty as he scrumped the tender leaves. (Hopeless photo but I knew if I moved to compose it properly he would disappear.)

Down the hillside, bees make their home in the hives and provide the community with delicious Eskdale honey, which we all appreciated at breakfast. The hives are managed by a commercial beekeeper, who has two 'farms', one on the opposite side of the valley and one here in the Community's gardens.