Gilcrux is a small village in Cumbria, and the site of a one bedroom terrace house that we rented for a couple of days. It was the nearest place that we could find to our destination, Harriston, which was an even smaller village.
Like some of the other places on the A to Z, I knew little about the area that I was visiting, other than simple headlines that are influenced by my own experiences and prejudices. If someone would ask me to quickly name two things about Cumbria I would say two things: the Lake District, and the Sellafield nuclear power plant.
I can count the times I’ve been to Cumbria on one hand. We had briefly been to Carlisle during our visit to Dornock. I had once been to a stag party in Ambleside, which involved a stay in a caravan park and the ironic joy of having to listen to an impromptu lecture about the rules of rugby. There was another time when I stopped off at Kendall to visit my parents who were retracing the steps of their honeymoon; their visit coincided with a leg of a motorcycle tour, which took me from Inverness, the outskirts of Glasgow and then down to Kendall via Carlisle. If I had been there another time, I can’t remember it.
My knowledge and experience of visiting Cumbria to complete the ‘H’ is, in some ways, similar to my knowledge and experience of visiting Powys, Wales to complete the ‘F’. I know little about these areas other than I know I’ve had a nice time whenever I’ve visited them and both are beautiful places. Another similarity (and one that reflects the reality of a pretend East Midlander who lives in London) is that it is necessary to make a concerted and dedicated effort to get to these places. This simple fact of distance is, perhaps, the most significant justification for my own ignorance.
The journey to Gilcrux had been punctuated by a stop in Macclesfield, and then a short diversion into Manchester, where I met Andy, an old university buddy.
I met Andy half an hour after he had finished coaching a group of teenagers; somehow they had willingly chosen to go on what I understood was a ‘cross country run’. I have a lot of respect for Andy: he’s bright, very charming, articulate, and has run his own business for twenty years, but I simply cannot understand why he likes running so much. I find running a challenging past time to understand. I place golf and running in the same category. To obnoxiously paraphrase a well-worn phrase, both activities, in my opinion, spoil a good walk.
We spent about an hour chatting; we spoke about career stuff, family stuff, and relationship stuff. His situation was different to mine; he has a family, whereas I don’t. In some respects, I’ve now hit a point in my life when I’ve started to notice families a lot more than I ever used to.
I see families on the Tube, families on the bus, and families occupying my local park. I avoid them. I’ve even been known to change carriages when a big gaggle of children and their parents step onto a Tube carriage, whilst pushing all their children-paraphernalia. It’s not because I don’t want to be brought out from my London ‘please don’t talk to me’ bubble by all the babbling and shrieking (although that might well be a part of it); it’s simpler than that. I’m starting to feel as if I’m missing out, and it’s a feeling that is starting to feel slightly uncomfortable, and a little unnerving.
Although I had been thinking about all these things for quite a while, my chat with Andy brought everything into focus. He has a great family setup, one that is clearly busy and full. In some respects, we’re contrasts. I’m filled with respect for my Andy, and that feeling is lightly tinged with envy that comes from a positive place that is called admiration.
I looked at my watch; it was about half past ten. I was tired with all that driving. I paid the bill and we both padded out into the snow and then onto our lodgings. When we got in, I noticed that the wood burner that our landlady had lit in anticipation of our arrival had gone out. It was time for bed, and it nearly time to discover Harriston.
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We followed the signs to a town called Aspatria, where we joined a road that took a curving path towards a railway station and then over a railway line that runs between Carlisle and Whitehaven. Having memorised a map, I roughly knew where I was going: a right at the end of the road, second right, and then the first main left hand turn towards the village.
The road climbed upwards. The residue of the previous night’s snow clung to the single pavement, but the road was clear. I remember fields to the left, and a view of a gentle valley to the right, until we reached the first houses, painted yellow, terracotta and white. We were met by an abrupt right hand bend, which revealed the village of Harriston to us.
“It’s adorable!” said Sarah.
We drove along the main street; neat terrace houses sat on either side of the road. Pavement and open spaces were punctuated by trees. I turned the car around, and parked in a space that was opposite the village hall. We were bang on time; we had an appointment with Henry, who heads up the committee that runs the hall, which acts as a community centre.
I knocked on the door to the village hall, pushed the door, walked through a short entrance corridor and into a large, warm hall. We found Henry immediately. We found our way to a table towards the front of the hall, and sat down. Whilst we were introducing ourselves, we were offered welcoming mugs of coffee by his wife, Janice.
Henry told us that he had lived in the village all his life, and he had been working on a history project. Harriston owes its existence to coal mining; it sits on the site of a former colliery that was established in 1870 and ran until 1902. Its name comes from the name of its former owner, Joseph Harris, and the current structure and layout of the village relates to the houses that had been built to accommodate its miners.
It was only then I realised something: all the houses in the village that we had driven past were not the original two up-two down northern terraces that I thought they were. Instead, every single house on the village had been rebuilt in the 1970s by the local authority, and was now owned by a housing association. Two buildings had survived the redevelopment: the village hall, and an adjacent building that was once a factory that used to make spools for cables.
In the 1970s the local authority decided to condemn the entire village. Henry told us that there had been three plans: demolition, rebuilding, or the creation of a new housing estate on another part of Aspatria.
I asked him about the hall, and what it used to be; its large windows reminded me of Methodist chapels. The hall used to be a school, a miners welfare club, and briefly functioned as a local coroner’s court when three miners had lost their lives in an accident
Henry told us about how the hall had moved between owners and towards neglect. It was a story of patience, meetings, the establishment of trust, and civic persistence with Henry playing a pivotal role. The committee was now clearly taking very good care of the hall; it appeared to have been recently painted, and new radiators had been installed.
The hall has its own Facebook page and website that advertised coffee afternoons which take place three days a week, and a craft club. There were more activities that took place than were advertised; there were prize bingo events, Macmillan cake baking competitions, a new year’s eve party, and a Halloween party.
With mining now a distant memory, I was curious about what employment there was in the local area. Henry mentioned farming; there was a big dairy in nearby Aspatria that made Lake District Cheddar. There were also factories; there used to be a steel plant in Workington until the early 1980s, with heavy industry giving way to light industrial units. One factory in Aspatria, I later discovered, made mattresses. Another aspect of employment was, of course, tourism. Henry mentioned the lakes, and Keswick being a big draw for visitors. A challenge that anyone would face would be, of course, transport. Aspatria was a mile walk away. Trains and busses ran hourly.
After we were refreshed with another cup of coffee, Henry started his laptop and dug out some further files; he had some photographs to show us. He had pictures of the old Harriston. The new Harriston was built alongside the old Harriston. Occupants from one part of the village were moved into the newly built modern 1970s three bedroom houses.
I was struck by many of these pictures, most of which were in black and white. Old cars sat outside a row of uninhabited terraces. Henry showed me where his family used to live, and described some of the neighbours. He showed us a photograph of two large extended families; he seemed to know everyone. There was another photograph; a photograph of beauty, poignancy and change. It was of an ally between two rows of terraces; yards backing onto other yards. In the middle sat a child’s bicycle, complete with stabilisers. In the distance, there was evidence of construction work, a fair way away from the then intact houses. Other than the village hall, and the adjacent building, a part of the old Harriston exists in the present: the tiles from the original buildings have apparently made their way onto the roofs of the houses that they replaced.
There were other photos; one of the mine manager’s house, another that features the wheelhouse chimney. Henry also mentioned that somewhere in the village there used to be a bowling green.
Towards the end of our visit, we briefly touched on the subject of politics; specifically how a policy, known as the ‘bedroom tax’ can have (and has had) an impact on a village like Harriston. Simply put, if living in a house with more bedrooms than you need, then you will have to pay more for those additional rooms. If you can’t afford those additional rooms, you may then have to move away from the community. What was clearly evident, was how important community was to the village.
I was struck by a sense of how Henry was linked to and connected with Harriston. I was struck by this since my relationship to my own community is very different to his. Henry seemed to know who all of his neighbours were; I only know two of mine. I was also struck by his generosity (in terms of his time), and his openness. I was also very struck by a sense of closeness too; how the hall is a central place, and how it can play a totemic role in the identity of place.
Whilst Harriston might be ‘close’, I didn’t come away with the impression that it was closed. Henry shared an anecdote about people who had moved to the village, and had participated in the cake baking competition. He shared other stories about people who came and went; different people, from different backgrounds.
I liked visiting Harriston, and speaking with Henry. I came away with a strong impression that ‘community’ played a very important role in the village, and I came away feeling slightly envious; my own sense of community is made up of people who are spread across different cities, towns and villages, rather than being in one place. I love seeing and interacting with my extended ‘virtual’ community, but I miss seeing and interacting with people who I live close to.
I thought of the different events that were happening, and had happened. I really liked the idea of a Halloween party, and I’ve always really enjoyed the very few occasions I have played prize bingo. As I left Harriston and drove through Aspatria, my mind returned to the discussion I had with my friend, Andy, and how our conversation had been linked to the the theme of family.
