A strange set of coincidences took me on a virtual trip to Clark Bridge Mills in Halifax yesterday. It started with my never-ending quest to prune my bookshelves – the Good lady Wife keeps threatening to bring in a structural engineer as she believes that the beams and floorboards can no longer support the weight of books. One volume under […]
In Search Of Edward Gregson Part 2 My research into the life and times of Edward Gregson, photographer, of Halifax and Blackpool is both illogical and unstructured: flitting between odd facts and unrelated times, and punctuated by portraits of anonymous Victorian worthies. It is a journey of discovery in which gazing out of the window and enjoying the scenery is […]
There is an advert doing the rounds on television at the moment for some new family history database service which is supposed to make tracing your ancestors as easy as sending a Paypal transfer for £100. Just press a computer key and: “Oh goodness, my grandmother was the daughter of the Duke of Beaudung“, says the happy customer, followed by […]
I have a book, somewhere on my bookshelf, which charts the history of great ideas and how they came about. It starts off by imagining how our ancestors might have thought up the idea of the wheel ,and goes on to describe the moment of sublime insight that gave us such inventions as the vacuum cleaner, penicillin, and the one-sheet […]
I am ending this short tour of Brighouse back in the 1960s with a return to the market. There is, however, something slightly odd about this final negative scan. Looking carefully at the young chap towards the right of the group of market shoppers, I have the distinct impression that it might be me. But if it is, who took […]
It is still 1966 and we have moved back from Brighouse Market onto Commercial Street. There are no yellow lines and no parking meters, but be careful, there is no waiting on this side today.
We had a meal out at the Old Bridge Inn, Ripponden last night. Lovely pub, glorious food and drink, and special friends. I could have got lyrical about it, but then I realised I did 9 years ago. Here’s what I wrote then:- Imagine the scene. You are walking through a West Yorkshire village. The nearby Pennine hills scrape puddles […]
We are still in Brighouse, still in the old open air market. We are still in the time of Ajax and Omo; we are still in the land of plastic rain hats and eggs piled high on trays. It is raining, which is surprising, because it never rained when I was young.
Old age is a wonderful thing. It’s a time when you need no excuses, when you can turn pointless time wasting into a passionate vocation. It’s a time when you can dedicate most of the morning to scanning an Edwardian penny for no other reason than “it was there”.