Maybe it’s because I’m A Londoner . . .
. . . And I’ve always loved London town
As a writer, the big cities of the world call to me.
They want to tell me their secrets, their history and the lives of the people who live, love and die within their walls.
After writing each of my novels I return to my apartment overlooking Battersea Park, and before my case is unpacked, another story is already at my fingertips.
So when my publisher requested I visit Yorkshire and experience the rural idyll and industrial heritage for a couple of months, it was with trepidation that I agreed. Apparently; the natives there are avid readers!
In the City of York an apartment rental had been organised by my dear friend Judi, whose neighbours were away in New York. Each evening, after my day soaking up the atmosphere, listening in to conversations mainly from shopkeepers and tourists, and resting my hands on every medieval wall and dwelling I could, Judi and I sat on our joint balcony overlooking the river Ouse, drinking champagne and laughing about the time she turned down the opportunity of playing one of my protagonists. After two weeks it was time for me to move on.
I drove to the city of Ripon and to the small terraced cottage which I would use as my base for the next two weeks. It was late when I arrived, hungry and tired. I was met with a welcome aromatic waft of food. In the kitchen I opened the oven door to a golden topped cottage pie. Below, a nutmeg skin had formed on a creamy rice pudding. Had I entered someone else’s home? Did my key fit the other cottages? I dashed back to the door and saw with relief the name plaque matched the one on the keyring. I went to bed that night comforted by the delicious meal, but still puzzled. Had I eaten someone’s dinner, was I sleeping in their bed? Well Goldilocks, I mumbled. Too late now.
The following morning all was revealed. My neighbour visited to see if I had settled in. Chrissie had a key and kept the cottage spick and span for the Colonel and owner of the estate. I thought you might be famished love, there’s nowt worse is there?
The Anglo Saxon Cathedral was my first call for the day. Here, is possibly one of the oldest mid-seventh century crypts. I often find that within these buildings I can soak up the historical heritage of the people. The nearby towns of Harrogate, Thirsk and Richmond had the same charm and quaintness and I was greeted with smiles and kindness.
Leaving the cottage was like leaving an old friend. Chrissie was there with a freshly baked curd tart and a Yorkshire Brack — for your next place love, she said, as she waved me off.
The west of the county was a different matter altogether. For the next few weeks I lodged with my editors in-laws in Leeds, from where I was in reach of towns and villages related to the industrial revolution. At first the culture shock was quite frankly, disturbing. I was manhandled. Now don’t get me wrong, I have travelled the world. Engaged with my fellow man from every culture you can imagine. Lived with them, supped with them and worked with them. But here, conversations with strangers, invites, shared experiences (some intimate) and dare I say … love, were all given with bear hugs, a slap on the back, an embrace or even a kiss. An introduction was followed by an invite to dinner, it wasn’t until a final confirmation of the address, that I was expected at twelve midday sharp! And not seven in the evening. And of course, tea was at five sharp!
Yorkshire is beautiful, and full of quaint villages. Moorlands and forests, Towns and Cities with historical buildings and remnants of castles, abbeys. But the same can also be said of other counties, like Sussex, Cheshire, Shropshire and Wiltshire. But it’s the people of Yorkshire that have provided me with unrivalled material for my next novel. They are blunt, opinionated and thrive on their regional identity. A proud race with a laid back demeanour and a wicked dry sense of humour. They are chuffin’ inspirational.
I returned to London six months ago, and today, a meeting with my editor means I’m back on the tube; where no eyes meet and I could smell the stress and the vulnerability. My novel is going well so she shouldn’t have any objection to my news.
My apartment is sold and I am re-locating to Yorkshire, where …..
…I got a funny feeling inside of me, just walking up and down.
(c) 2024 Lillian Bradbury.
