conclusion

The weekend passed relaxing in York - sheltered in the Bar Convent, listening to Morley in the Chapter House, taking tea in Betty's, walking the walls, and visiting St Mary's, now ruined, dissolved in Henry's time, used by him as stables for the camp for his Progress, while he stayed in the newly renamed King's House, until then the Prior's lodging.

King's House facade

Bar Convent front door

Back by train. Sunday, so crowded and noisy. Made me long to be back on the buses ...


This year went better than last in many ways. Better planned, perhaps, and better with lighter evenings and warmer weather. But it was a shame to miss many of Henry's more obscure staging points. Maybe the route should be re-traced by car ...

Betty's tea room

Another buspass odyssey ?
Well, if the concessions are still available next year, I was thinking of Stratford to Silver Street - the road that Shakespeare must have traveled often between his two worlds. But not alone this time. Any fellow travellers could make contact by commenting on this blog ...

Pontefract to York

"Pontefract - that's not far ..." - Housekeeper at the Convent.
True, but by way of Hull, Selby and a round trip to Cawood ...


view from my supper table at The Olive Tree


In search of Pontefract cakes. Covered market, then the museum, a lovely art nouveau building - “Free Library 1904” in mosaic in the foyer. Wetherspoon's just fitting out their new pub. “The Broken Bridge”. Alas, all the decent buildings have already been taken. Still, they should do well. No other pub seems to serve food in the evening.
On the bus to Selby, a man shambles on, his pockets stuffed with timetables. Around sixty, but in a poor way, with a crutch, a beard, bad teeth, and a bottle of Lucozade. And, as the woman in front of me points out, smelly. “You get a lot like that on't buses.” He is sitting facing backwards, facing me. I could have been looking in a mirror. A “there but for the grace of God” reflection.
The Magnet Inn is boarded up. “All offers considered”. Obviously not enough of a draw.
The County of North Yorkshire. Cooling towers now march across the landscape – three sets in perspective, punctuating the landscape as abbeys and priories did once. We pass quite close to Eggborough, a coal fired power plant.
“Are you writing a book ?” My notebook has been spotted. Not sure how to reply. A man in Hensall has a humbug for the driver.
A llama in a field, and a brown sign for Selby Abbey.

funeral at Selby

There's funeral on when I get there. A bowed and lonely man heads the mourners. On the hearse, a big floral tribute to “MUM”.

Cawood Castle

The 42 takes me out past Nickey Nackey Lane to Cawood Castle. Now in private hands, and let out by the Landmark Trust.

No bus stops on the other side of the road, so I'm making hasty alternative plans. But the 42 pulls up, and takes me back to Selby for the number 4 to Goole - I have to change at Howden. We agree that the Memorial is most likely.
A63 to Hull. A49 to York.
Barlby and Osgodby, then back onto the A63. Detours to remote villages – Cliffe, Hemingborough, then over the Derwent and into the East Riding. “There's racing in York today ...”
“Howden, historic town.” and another ruined choir.
Two others are waiting for the bus to Hull. “A long, boring ride.”
I have to get a ticket to Gilberdyke, then “pay” again. Never happens, though.
Warmer weather this afternoon. Hull 23 miles. North Cave Methodist Chapel. HM Prison Wolds. Cave Castle [a hotel]. Into the bus garage at East Houghton to change drivers.
The Humber Bridge sighted to the east. And back once more onto the A63. Melton, Welton and into Hull, with its cream phone boxes.
Spots of rain as my last bus leaves Hull for York. Out past the Zachariah Pearson and the Old Picture House, along the A1079 Beverley Road. CCTV on board, the first this trip. Flat land, straight road, and a glimpse of Beverley Minster to the right. And the race course. Finkle Street – common name up here, meaning 'corner' –  Temperance Terrace,  Market Weighton.
York 18. Leeds 42.
Pocklington, twinned with Pays de Racan. Loire Valley, lucky them.
“Welcome to the City of York”. Though we're miles from the centre. Dunnington, with cockerels on a dung heap. Traffic out of the city crawling past. A turn off to Howden, so I've been running parralel with this morning's road.
“Feet First” Not an undertaker, but a chiropodist. Bus lane, into the centre and eventually into Nunnery Lane.
As I alight in the shadow of the Convent, there are noisy men in suits everywhere. The Races, countless stag parties, and Friday night will make this a noisy welcome to York.

After a warm welcome – St Paul is on the 2nd floor, and has wifi – off into the centre to Clifford's Tower, for the last groat photo and a celebration plate of ravioli in the Olive Tree.

the groat and the music

companions on the journey - music from the court of Henry VIII and a groat ...

out of Doncaster, a monologue

You see these street lamps on the bridge ?  Never thought they'd survive. I've not seen them lit up. I don't like to be in Doncaster after dark. These days you don't do you. Youths with knives and what have you. I'd have 'em all rounded up and put in a big concentration camp. On the Isle of Man … or what was that Scottish island they had to abandon because of … not Foot and Mouth, what was it ?
What is there to do in Doncaster ?  The Dome, is it ?  I don't know, but it's very popular, I believe.
I've not long moved back up here. This was my home, but I've been living down in Louth. To be with my daughter. Now I've lost her, I thought I'd move back up. I wish I hadn't, really. Still, if I'd stayed down there, I'd have been flooded out. We put up a bench, you know, in her memory, in this nature reserve we helped to get going. That was under water. I've lived all over. Leeds, Aylesford, South Wales. My husband  used to work on the farms, so we'd go where there was work for him. My sister, though, as she says, she's lived in the same house her whole life, practically. I couldn't be like that.
I didn't like Leeds, though. Preferred Louth, with my daughter. They've still got her ashes on the mantelpiece. Can't decide what to do. As my grandsons say, “we've nowhere to go”, you know, to mourn.
That's where we were brought up, over there. You see that church hall ?  We had magic lantern shows, in there, with the Girl Guides. And that's where they took us when we were bombed out. Just while they found us somewhere to live. We never went back to the old house, though. I used to work in there, see, the Picture House. It's a fireplace showroom now; it's been a supermarket and all sorts since. No, we never got to see much of the films. By the time you've done selling the tickets. But I did have a little torch, and one of those trays for the drinks and the ices, you know. That school there, I started there seventy-seven years ago. It's changed a bit since. I nearly drowned in that boating lake there. The swans come from Russia, I think. It was a Sunday morning, and I was taking my little brother to church. I was eight. I fell off the little bridge. Somebody saw me, and got me out and took me over the road to the doctor. Otherwise I'd not be here talking to you now …

Lincoln to Pontefract

Another challenging start, after the media scrum and the Morning Prayer. Decided to walk down Steep Hill to the Bus Station – a fine morning to do it, but cobbly and, well, very steep. Caught the bus to Gainsborough with other pensioners. 

Noticeable how many people are talking about politics this morning. Same with the noisy birthday girls back at the Prince of Wales.

But Doreen a couple of seats back keeps up a much more typical flow – she's been visiting a forgetful friend : “and do you know she'd given me the custard tarts I'd been out to fetch her ...”
Along the A57. Gainsborough 17 miles. Sheffield only 44. 
Odder – the name of a village. Along the canal to Saxilby. familiar from last year's journey. Industry gives way to narrowboats, one of them named “The Kids' Inheritance”. The Saxilby Drama Circle are advertising a Ray Cooney farce in the Village Hall. Vapour plumes from cooling towers coalesce and merge with the clouds. These great towers will be a constant companion on the horizon today.

Sturton by Stow. Willingham, twinned with Moyenneville – just your average French town, I guess [in Picardy, apparently]. As we join the A156 into Gainsborough from the Willingham Road. 
On the 96 to Doncaster via Retford, back past Hers and Sirs [Unisex Salon] onto the A620, over the Trent and away. Goole. Misterton works – and the Social Club – boarded up, but the Baptist Church, the Board School and Albion Terrace all survive. Distant views to the north – cooling towers again – back past Fox Covert Lane to the A631, Gringley on the  Hill. Cross Hill, with a weathered cross looking out over the valley – Misson and Misterton Cars - as it has done for centuries. 
On Clayworth Wharf, the Retford and Worksop Boat Club, and the Boat Inn. The King's Arms in Clarborough boasts not a crest, but some very mean looking Crusaders.

And into Retford to change buses. Radio 2 in the bus station conveniences. Turns out to be the same bus and driver. “You should've stayed on … Donny, are you ?”. Yes indeed, on the way to Doncaster now, listening to the woman behind me whose husband, now recovering from “a little do” in hospital, works on the crossing gates at Scrooby. Scrooby, alas, invisible from the bus, which stops briefly at the Pilgrim Fathers [Scrooby a hotbed of religious dissent in 1620, it appears] on the Great North Road. Would have had time to get off for an hour to explore Low Road, as it happens …
Bawtry looks much more promising, with the Crow Hotel presiding over a wide market place. Kings Wood, with bluebells. Overcast as we pass the Doncaster racecourse. The town's oldest pub, The Salutation on South Parade with its galleries, the Doncaster High School for Girls now boarded up.
And straight onto the 84 to Hatfield [mentioned in the Sovereign chapter I read yesterday]. Past the Tower Chippy – choice of peas, curry sauce, gravy or beans with your cod and chips. £2.99. Brutal 60s parades, now mostly boarded up.
Out into the villages to the north, with some more names to join Boothby Graffoe. Kirk Sandall [wasn't he in those 50s biblical epics?] and Barnby Dun – a smile, a song and a banjo …
Stainforth, with its speed cushions, and Sheep Dip Lane.
Hatfield well worth the detour – just beyond the industrial reach of Doncaster,  with its Nettos, its metal shuttered pizza places, “pop, sweets, crisps”. 

The lovely church of St Lawrence – closed, alas – and the Ingram Arms facing the Blue Bell.
Back on the bus, joined by five walkers walking – off home on the  84 after the destination pub lunch.
In Frenchgate bus station, scalded my hand on Millie's tea, and joined the huge queue for the 409 to Pontefract. Space at a premium, so squeezed in beside a little old lady with a sturdy shopping trolley, which I looked after so that I could sit on the outside. And that's how we got talking …


And into North Yorkshire, Pontefract 6 miles. Kirk Smeaton, under the A1, past Dark Lane, The Elephant, the Edward VII Memorial Wing to arrive in Pontefract at 4.30.
Giving me time to wander a little – Buttermarket – organ music from St Giles – before phoning The Tower. He drove straight in to collect me, checked me in, and hurried off, to prepare for his trip to Croatia.
Very pleasant room, stylish décor and working wifi !  But the proprietor was a little  optimistic about the eating opportunities.

Pizza from a takeaway, with wine from Tesco …

Ampthill to Lincoln

Half way. Lincoln, as last year on the way to Durham.

But so much better with the lighter evenings; finally arrived here on the Scunthorpe bus at twenty past eight, the sunlight still catching the towers of the Minster over the rooftops as I made my way from the Peacock to the Old Rectory.
This morning, no-one in the restaurant for breakfast save me and the two scots terriers, one of which was called Daisy, the other almost certainly not Gert ...
Tawny Tiptree marmalade.
Time for a walk for the paper before returning to pack.
Sunshine, but an icy shower as I approach St Andrew’s. To my surprise, the church is open. Maggie, alone in the choir stalls, is about to say Morning Prayer. Would I care to join her.
So the two of us shared the reading, as priest and acolyte had done in that place since well before Henry VIII’s time.
It’s the vicar’s day off, Wednesday, so she pops in and does it for him.

waiting outside the Prince of Wales

X42 a little late for Bedford [“Historic County Town”]. A confused lady gets on at Ampthill, unsure where she’s going. The driver stops at the next stop, but she stays put. He thinks she’ll probably end up “back where she’s just got on ...”
Past the Chequers, where we ate a month or so ago, and the imposing Swan Hotel in the town.
But confused lady and I both get off in Bedford, where I catch the P41 in bright morning sunshine. Takes a while to get out of the built-up Bedford: Budgens and Brookside Business Park. 
Lovely almshouses in Abbey Square, Turvey – then it's into Buckinghamshire and Cold Brayfield. Castle Ashby House. Black clouds over Yardley Hastings. Northampton, twinned with Poitiers, boasts an Isaac Newton Shopping Centre, to which the dark and depressing bus station is attached. “AMMO FOUND IN TOWN PUB” says the newsvendor's poster.
The X4 to Milton Keynes turned up late – I took it, but decided not to risk missing the connection back at Grafton Regis [and running late with no further backup in hand]. Got off at Hyde Road, and waited 8 minutes for the return, which would almost certainly have meant a missed connection …
Back in Northampton, got off for a green tea in All Saints – nice little café in part of the church, after checking with the Tourist Office where the Leicester X7 would leave from. Groat photo at the taxi rank beside All Saints; walked up through a damp market to the Shopping Centre.
X7 left on time. Spring Hill is to be built over. Red earth explains the Old Brick Fields, and Brixworth. Yellow fields, Lamport House. Naseby, and into Leicestershire - “Heart of Rural England”. Not sure whether or not to be pleased that Subway couldn't make it in Market Harborough, even in a prime site. 
Into the city along the A6, past the Oadby Owl. But where is the Leicester Building Society, now presumably Santander. Could it be that expanse of rubble …
A stroll round the city centre. Brucciani's ice cream parlour still in Fox Street, off Humberstone Gate in the shadow of Lewis's department store.

Brucciani's Ice Cream Parlor

Could have caught an earlier Melton bus if I'd looked at the timetable – every 20 minutes. Wolsey works – named for the Cardinal, buried in nearby Abbey Park – is a few fragments of listed facade. Belgrave Road, Melton Turn, familiar childhood haunts. Open country after Asda at Thurmaston. Syston. East Goscote. Melton Mowbray - “Home of … Stilton Cheese.”
Suddenly, the college I'm looking for. Leap off, but I'm too late. No sign of the connection. Walkabout reveals a cattle market [false trail, this] a bus station, also opposite the college, and a helpful library. I need to be at St Mary's, a different bus station. The Picture Palace [and presumably St Mary's itself], recently demolished for the buses and cars; the graveyard still intact. Lemon cake and tea from a little café.
Waltham on the Wolds – sun and cloud. Hilary Mantel – A Change of Climate – best reading choice of any fellow passenger this week.
Twenty to six: Welcome to Lincolnshire. Grantham, twinned with Saint Augustin. Sur mer, presumably.
And on to Lincoln, past Belton House [National Trust] and into  open country. A607 – not alas via Sleaford, but Syston [again] in the evening sun. St Vincent, Caythorp on the Old Lincoln Road. An ancient wall on the left of the road, dilapidated, only fields beyond. A maroon Austin Seven drives past the Hare and Hounds, Fullbrook. Then half a dozen more …
Leadenham has a village school, a bowling green, cows, bluebells. “This England” country, and a striking contrast with the cosmopolitan Belgrave Road. Past a turn for Boothby Graffoe, and early, so pause by Welbourne's, Your Village Baker Since 1898. Much more ancient is the Lion and Royal, but before the King's Head, another coaching house is up for sale …
In along the A15 Sleaford Road. And from the bus park, the number 6 to Scunthorpe...





Later, supper down at Café Zoot, a stone's throw from Cathedral and Castle.

Westminster to Ampthill

centre of Ampthill

Not an auspicious start.

No bus for 25 minutes – a later train.

No 11 bus very slow to Westminster.

Walked back to the Jewel Tower – in the background the media circus waiting for coalition news. “Look, it's that Welsh one … Kinnock !”

setting off from the Jewel Tower

bus past the Palace of Westminster

Bought a couple of postcards in the Tower, then took a bus along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square.

Then after a comfort stop, the 29 bendy bus to Wood Green.

Past the site of the Alhambra, past theatreland, and a huge demolition site on the corner of Tottenham Court Road.

Prince of Wales Passage, Mornington Crescent. Camden High Street, with every charity shop known to man, kebabs and Chinese Medicine. Holloway Prison, Seven Sisters, Finsbury Park – a real park, vast acres of green, and then the less green Green Lanes, traffic crawling to Turnpike Lane and Wood Green Shopping City.

No sign of the 217, walked back to the shops. Took the next 121 towards Enfield. Circuitous route. Took a couple of pictures, then walked through to the 313 – took me back to Enfield Chase, then through increasingly open country to Potters Bar.

Short wait in the bus station for the 84 to St Albans. London Colney, where the Kings Road milestone read London 18 miles.

Clock Tower St Albans

Time in St Albans – 30 minutes rather than the two hours anticipated to call in to the tourist office, buy a paper and take the photograph at the Clock Tower.

Dunstable Priory

Amici teatime

Sunshine on the 84, though a grumpy driver. Flamstead, M1 Dunstable. Plenty of time here for a cup of tea [Amici coffee bar, with blueberry cheesecake muffin] and a stroll to the Priory. A pleasant drive out via Houghton Regis and Toddington – not just Services, but an imposing parish church - St George of England.

In Flitwick guided to the bus shelter by a passenger deputed to the task by the driver who didn't fancy going over the bridge …

An earlier bus to Ampthill, though not to the door of the Prince of Wales.

Checked in, tea, stroll including the header photograph at the central pump and Waitrose for tomorrow's lunchtime sandwich.

table at the Prince of Wales

Evening meal, with mixed company, of Black Pudding, Pie and Mash and Lavender crème Brulée -Henry VIII would have approved.

The first day over – all five calling points visited and photographed – the only day on which that can happen.

First footnote on names.

Two trading names – in North London, the Carsi. Obviously a convenience store: “I’m just popping out to the Carsi ...”

And in Dunstable, The Mouth. A Chinese takeaway. “And down in The Mouth this week ...”