Wednesday last, on my way to a treasure hunt, I found
the most astonishing of treasures -- the dearest, sweetest man. (Yes, you heard
me right!) And to think it all began in the most ordinary of ways:
As the week before, Sandra and I had talked about
the potential of going to a weekly, midweek car boot sale (aka, swap meet), that
in the end didn’t work out, I was determined not to miss another opportunity –
and nothing on this particular Wednesday was going to prevent me from making
certain I got there! So at this point, now armed with the Internet ( i.e., Google maps)
and my best walking shoes, I took off on foot to the Pennell’s car boot sale,
known to serious bargain shoppers far and wide. (Man, did I get some awesome bargains
-- just wait till you see!)
Anyway, along the way I came across a free-standing phone booth. Not
that that’s so incredible or anything in its own right, it’s just that it was
the first I’d seen this go around . . . and this outside of London and all (though
in all honesty, it was NOT red!). So naturally I HAD to get a picture. (Oh, you
should just see me around here with my camera!) I was in this mode when
seemingly out of the blue this man came walking out of what, from out the
corner of my eye, appeared to be an alleyway or something similar, you know,
not along the street as you would expect. (In fact, that is what it was.) Anyway
as I was sizing up the shot, he passed me while saying something at the same
time. As is usual, because I wasn’t geared up to listen closely, thinking that,
as usual, the person would give a cursory greeting and then walk on by, I only
heard only something like “photo” and “phone booth.” As he had spoken in a
joking manner to me, I teasingly bantered with, “Yeh, you want to get inside
and I'll get your picture?” when in actuality what he had said all along was
something to the effect of would I like it if he took MY picture inside the
phone booth. And then, since he had offered to help, I took full advantage of
his proposition and asked him, within the span of several shots, to try and capture
the BT (British Telecom) etched in the glass door.
The notable
thing about this incidence is that while most everyone is friendly and willing
to help when asked, once they’ve done their thing they buzz right on along, but
in this case, he didn’t. He wasn't in
the usual hurry and we chatted amicably. People are often interested to speak
with an American, just as I would if I bumped into an Englishman in the States.
(The usual conversation ALWAYS starts something like, “Where’re you from?” as
my accent stands out like a sore thumb, and then the repartee expands out from
there. {The funny thing to me is many ask, “Are you Canadian or American?” That
seems like an odd question, as to us there is no similarity in the least that
we are aware of.} Pretty much no one has heard of Utah, but EVERYONE has some
sort of connection with California, Florida, or New York.)
We stood and
talked, then we stayed and talked some more, then kept right on talking -- and
I was liking it. (He is a year old than I am, and as we conversed we quickly
learned that we have many things in common – for one he is a widower. His wife
died tragically at the early age of 35, from breast cancer. He has two
children, to whom he is very close. He will be a grandpa for the first time
early in the new year – an event for which he is very excited, as you can well
imagine!)
I shared that I
had spent the majority of my time while visiting in England in the counties of Somerset
and Wiltshire and how beautiful I thought it was. He said that that was where
his grandfather had grown up, and where he had spent many hours as a child. He
said as how in the last few years he had gone back to visit and how much it had
changed and what a great disappointment that was to him. Referencing closer to
home he related some of the changes that had taken place locally, and mentioned
that when he was a boy growing up in the area across from where Pennell’s
Garden Center is now, it used to be all open fields of barley. What a coincidence, I said, that is just where
I’m headed right now. I asked him about how much further away it was and he
said it was still a good ways off. Then we discussed directions, etc. It seems
I wasn't even halfway there yet. Because
I think he didn’t want our conversation to come to an end just yet, he said
something like if you can trust an old English chap I'd be happy to give you
lift over there in my car.
Now you may be
thinking that my taking this man up on his offer was rash, but if you’d been
there, (if you had experienced his goodness and sincerity), you’d have known
what I could discern. He was a true gentleman, and a very fine one. I felt
totally at ease with him, even after such a short interval -- almost as if I’d known him for a very long
time.
And so he did –
he gave me a ride over to where I found the car boot sale, in the field, next
to the very fine Pennell’s Garden Center. And this time around (remembering the
disappointing -- in size -- car boot sale on the grounds of the Methodist church
on Day Thirteen) it WAS everything I had been imagining and hoping for!
After we arrived
and he had pulled off to the side, we sat in his car for a bit longer and kept right on talking. Neither of
us wanted to say goodbye. In the end he asked if I’d like to keep in touch
through email. (On a humorous note: when he was telling me his address, he said
I could easily remember it because his first name was Ivan, like Ivan the
Terrible, and his second name was Byron, like Lord Byron, the poet. In the
career world, he has always been known by his given name. I said, if it was all
the same to him, I’d call him Byron. And then he added jokingly, I’ve often wondered
what was my mother thinking?!) Of course I wanted to, but I really didn’t see
the point of it, seeing as how I was leaving on Sunday with Leah. It’s kind of
hard to stay excited about corresponding with someone you never expect to see
again. He respectfully said he understood, but if I wanted, he would gladly
give me his address, nevertheless. He said that if I did write him and if he
was ever anywhere around Birmingham, for business, he would be pleased if we
could get together for dinner or something.
We did end up
exchanging information, though I really felt it was hopeless -- though I earnestly
was hoping it was not. And that is how I first met Byron.
So now, in case
you’re wondering why I’m telling you about this on this date, several days
after it happened, is because, between Wednesday and Saturday, Byron had the exact
same thought that I had had, that we have a chance of spending a little more
time together while we were this close, before I left out for parts south.
After several short emails (in fact, he wrote me a very short email that very
afternoon, to make certain I had him on the radar), he did contact me by phone
and asked if I had ever seen York or Hull, and if not, would I be interested in
going on a little trip to visit these sights with him. Would I? Would I??!!
And so on day
twenty seven of my year in England, while the Wards were visiting for their
holiday and having another awesome day of revelry in their swimming costumes, I
opted, instead, for a date with destiny:
To start the
day off, as I had very much been wanting to visit Caistor and Maureen’s home
and dress shop (you may recall my friend at Lloyds; see why I had not been able
to fulfill this desire by this point**), that good Byron said he would be happy
for that to be the beginning of our trip, as it was in the general direction.
(As an even MORE astonishing side note, when I had mentioned any chance of
going to visit my friend Maureen, in Caistor, and described her and where she
worked, Byron began musing in his mind if there was any chance this might be
the Maureen he knew. Turned out it was! What a moment of merriment when I came
in with Byron (about whom I had told Maureen – this man I had met so recently
and now here we were going on a date). You should have seen her face! It was
great fun. And I began to see what a delightful side Byron has. You may recall
that the origination for Caistor is from the Roman Latin term, castra, plural
for castrum, which means buildings or
plots of land reserved for use as a military defensive position, and sure enough, Caistor was built on a fairly hilly site.
Very cute village. We walked around and quite enjoyed ourselves in that first
leg of our journey. (See below picture of anciently bricked natural artesian
spring we came across.)
** [For several
weeks I had been going to spend the day and night with Maureen, at her home in
Caister, but as the days I had left remaining in Grimsby began to dwindle, our
communicating had not been working out. First of all she is only at work
certain days and then she had been ill and not there. On the last possible day
I went in to see her and try to work things out and was told that she had been
in the A and E(Accident and Emergency, aka ER) all day. Oh, no, I naturally
thought, she has taken a serious turn for the worse. Turns out, I learned, she
had tripped while walking across the railway track on her way to work that very
morning and hurt her ankle, the very railroad track I traversed over pretty
much every single day. (Maureen later told me that no one offered to help her.
Even a train was about to take off in her direction! She had crawled herself
across the track and then called a colleague at the bank to give her a lift to
the hospital (Can you imagine?!), then had spent the remainder of the day
there. It is quite a story: she was treated by a student nurse, who sent her
home after waiting for her turn the entire day, saying there was nothing really
wrong with her. She spent an agonizing night in pain. Went back the next day.
They said, why are you here, we told you nothing was wrong. She said, I’m not
leaving till you do something. They took xrays and said, okay, maybe you
strained something or other and wrapped her up. The next day they phoned and she
was called back, turns out she actually had a hairline fracture, and now she
had a cast to limp around in for the next several months, and that was the
state in which Byron and I found her in. Poor Maureen! Not too many kudos for
the British medical system, I can tell you. I’d better be really careful,
stepping off curbs, crossing streets and all, eh, Erin?!]
To get up to the northern county of Yorkshire, where Hull and
York are located, you have to travel across the Humber Bridge. At the time it
was built in the 1980s, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world, the
greatest span of that type of a structure known to man. (Still impressive
today, it holds a place in the record book as the 5th longest bridge
in the world. Not bad.) On the other side of the bridge, after we had crossed
from our home in the county of North East Lincolnshire, over the Humber (the
large tidal estuary on the east coast of Northern England, formed by the
confluence of the tidal River Ouse and the tidal River Trent – or in other words,
the “seaside” we’d been visiting in Cleethorpes) we stopped to take a look at a
view of a lovely wild field of poppies, by a little stream (what in Norman
terms was known as a BECK), and oh-oh, it was here I had my first experience
with stinging nettle. That darn nettlesome weed just always seems to reach out
to grab me in the most unlikely of places! (Well, no, actually. In more exact
terms, let us just say that I am one who is not particularly in touch with the
details of her surroundings) The amazing thing is that God in his wisdom seems
often to take allowance for the likes of those like me and positions quite
close to distressing plants a remedy plant. And Byron knew what it was (dock
plant, identified by its large leaves and thick stem) and quickly applied it to
the sting. (I have since learned, by thorough investigation, that the leaves
and stems of nettle are covered with silky hairs that contain a histamine that
irritates the skin and acetylcholine which causes a burning feeling. As the irritant
is acidic in nature, just like poison ivy, it can be treated by counteracting
it with a basic substance, like the sap from a dock plant leaf.)
From
there we travelled on to York, whose history as a city dates back to the beginning of the first millennium
AD, though as an area there is evidence of settlement goes all the way back as
far as 8000 BC. As York was a town in Roman times,
its Celtic name is recorded in Roman sources.
After 400, Anglo-Saxons took over the area and adapted the
name to Old
English, meaning
"wild-boar town." The Vikings,
who took over the area later, in turn adapted the name to Norse, calling
it Jorvik, meaning "horse bay."
After the Saxon settlement of the North of
England, Anglian York was by the early 7th century an important royal
centre for the Northumbrian kings. Following the Norman Conquest of 1066 the city was substantially
damaged, but in time became an important urban centre as the administrative
centre of the county of Yorkshire.
It prospered during much of the later medieval era. The later years of the 14th
and the earlier years of the 15th centuries were characterised by
particular prosperity. During the English Civil War,
the city was regarded as a Royalist stronghold and was besieged
and eventually captured by Parliamentary forces. After the war, York slowly regained
its former pre-eminence in the North, and, by 1660, was the third-largest city
in England after London and Norwich.
Every year,
thousands of tourists come to see the surviving medieval buildings, interspersed
with Roman and Viking remains and Georgian architecture. And that’s just
what we did!!
Seeing as how it was a Saturday, York was
understandably besieged by visitors – and that was a good part of the
exhilaration of it all! It was the season for street vendors and performers.
There was a LOT going on -- to see and hear and smell. On one occasion we
happened upon what appeared to be a statue of a man riding a silly
old-fashioned bicycle. His tie and umbrella were flying back (in fact, his
umbrella was turned inside out) as if he had encountered a gale. And the most
captivating thing was that everything about him was purple, from his bike to
his fingertips to the spectacles sitting upon the silly expression of his face.
Byron said, what do you think? Do you think he’s real? His having said that
made me think that, of course, he was, but the longer and more carefully I
examined this whimsical character, the less I thought it could possibly be
true. And then Byron spoke to him. And then I learned another special something
about Byron’s personality – the sheer joy he has in engaging others and sharing
a pleasant moment with them. He had met and seen this man before – in fact, now
for many years -- and the purple man and Byron chatted away, as if they had
been best friends forever. I just stood in awe.
What should technically be called a minster (a
large and important church), the majestic York “cathedral” (in actuality, the
seat of a bishop) was originally built as a Norman structure in the 11th
century, while records indicate that as a Christian edifice, a church has
existed on the site since 180 AD. At the point the Gothic style of cathedrals had
arrived in England, the cathedral was rebuilt in the 1215 when a structure “to compare to Canterbury”
was ordered. From then until into the 1700s, it was revamped continuously,
making it by present standards the
largest gothic cathedral in northern Europe. The Great East Window, (finished in 1408), is the largest expanse of
medieval stained glass anywhere in the world. What you see when you gaze up at
the cathedral is pretty difficult to even begin to put into words. It is just
beyond description -- something that everyone should see, at least once, in
their lifetime. Really should be considered one of the (??) Wonders of the
World (can’t put a number on that, because I have no idea how many structures
in the world exist that should belong in this category!)
Next to its cathedral, one of the most
well-known draws to York is an area known as the Shambles. It’s a teeny little
lane, really, so old and narrow that the houses on either side seem to be
leaning across at each other, to such an extent that the light of day can barely
get in. Besides that the beams on the outside of the houses are buckling so
precariously you feel that the whole street is going to tumble down right
before your eyes. You practically get vertigo just looking at them.
About the time we were both getting peckish,
Byron had a treat in store for me. I felt very honored that he wanted to
share a very special spot he has enjoyed at various memorable moments in his
life, and that was a trip to Betty’s Tea Room. You have to travel all the way
to York for this marvelous experience. The waitresses are outfitted all up in
proper 19th century female service period dress, and the items on
the menu were quite divine. I ordered a glorified version of mac and cheese
(I do like pasta, and it was Frenchified, after all!), while Byron had
chicken and gruyere rosti, a glorified version of potato pancake, best I
could tell -- a Swiss dish consisting of grated potato formed into a cake, with
onion and topped with cheese. The food at Betty’s was awfully good, and the
establishment was all very genteel. (And, yes, Byron had tea.) We had to wait
in line just a little, for the privilege of eating there, as many others had
the very same idea on that bustling Saturday afternoon. While you waited,
there was an old-fashioned pastry/candy counter to tempt your taste buds. (I
just looked . . . )
We hung around York, till before you knew it
the shops were beginning to slowly shut down, one by one. Then off to Hull we
buzzed. Byron had spent a quite a bit of time in this industrial city, so
showed me quickly around various sights by car. One of my favorite things was
a massive statue of a man astride a horse. Byron pointed out that that was
the famous cast image of King Billy. The thought of that so made me laugh.
King Billy! How absurd for a king to be known as Billy. (Originally a king of
Scotland, William invaded England on November 5, 1688, in what became known
as the “Glorious Revolution,” deposing the reigning king, James VII, and
winning for himself the crowns of England, Scotland, and Ireland. Crowned
William III, he ruled jointly with his wife, Mary, until her death, in a
period of time often referred to as “William and Mary.” He was affectionately
known by sections of the population in Northern Ireland and Scotland as “King
Billy.”) By this time the light was beginning to fade, and I was beginning to
tire. (Can you imagine?!) It had been a whirlwind day.
What I really like about Byron is his desire to
try and match my curiosity with ready answers, as well as his eagerness to
point out interesting things he is aware of. Now THIS is the perfect way to
experience a new culture -- with someone who knows a lot about a certain
thing and takes pleasure in sharing all the joy of it with the person he’s
with. What’s not to love about that! You know, like King Billy, for instance.
Byron knew everything about him and the revolution that ended up changing
English history forever! (And there he was -- right there, riding along in
the middle of this street, all arrayed like some Grecian senator, with pigeon
confetti all over his shoulders – despite the pigeon-repelling apparati.
Awful!)
Wow, what a day!! And to think it all began with
my desire to go to Pennell’s. All in all, I ended up spending twelve glorious
hours with my knight in shining armour -- that very special gregarious and
personable gentleman -- before he delivered me safe and sound at the doorstep
of my home on Bargate. Under ordinary circumstance, it would have been way
too long for a first date really, where normally you would want to keep it to
lunch, at most, to protect yourself just in case the synergy was gosh awful
and you were dying to bail at the first available moment. As for me, in all
our lengthy and fantastically grand day of interaction, I can truly say I did
not experience ONE red flag. Pretty incredible really, when you consider it.
|
(Postscript_ I’ll just add here, as I know you’re
dying to know, the answer to “and then what happened after that?!” Well, I met
Byron four short days before I left Grimsby for good, and had to bid my new
friend a fond adieu. We have kept in touch by emails and a few phone calls,
though infrequently, as he is busy and I am distracted. That’s okay, because I
feel in my heart that there is much more to this story that remains to be told
– after all, the Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. And as it had started out so serendipitously,
so miraculously to begin with, I feel serenely that this is not the end. We’ll
see. To be continued__)
Photos_
1- OLympic Google doodle
2- the infamous phone booth (that’s not superwoman!)
3- the renowned Pennell’s car boot sale
4- artesian spring in Caistor
5- pigeon spikes above shop (poor pigeons – nobody loves ‘em)
6- 2428 yds of steel and concrete
7- street performers in York
8- purple man and disguise crasher (notice: still wearing the thumb guard)
9- York Minster/Cathedral, whatever
10- the Brambles
11- buckling beams
12- Betty’s Tea Room – won’t you join us?
13- swiss rosti @ Betty’s
14- King Billy
.jpg)
