Rosedale

Rosedale is a very pretty name and might have been even prettier when in earlier times it was connected to Europe by a land bridge and covered in dense forest. Celts and Romans left their mark as did the Saxons. In the C9th the Vikings arrived and may well have given Rosedale its name. Forget any image of a dale smothered in roses. Some believe it derives from Rossi which could be the name of a chieftain. Rossi also means horse. Then again it could come from ‘Rhos’ meaning moor, which had long since replaced virgin forest. 

In ll58 a Cistercian nunnery was founded, which is remarkable in itself, for the Cistercians were essentially a male order with a profound distrust of women and, indeed they seem to have been treated by their male counterparts with little respect. They were reprimanded for financial mismanagement, urged to give less to the poor in order to avoid bankruptcy. They were told off for allowing visitors into their dormitory, and warned against allowing puppies into the church lest they disturb the service. 

In 1535 the nunnery was dissolved along with other Catholic institutions as Henry and his minions went on their own distinctive property spree.

From then on, Rosedale slumbered, though the sheep remained. 

Then in the 1850’s everything changed. A rich seam of high grade magnetic iron stone was discovered and the population of Rosedale rose from around five hundred to three thousand in two decades.

Now, surrounded by heather and sky, it’s hard to imagine these bleak moorlands once resounded to the clanging of hammers; the air clouded in smoke, the nights glowing in fire. Giant kilns were constructed where the iron stone was purified;  track and rail lines were built built connecting the mines to the kilns, and then later to nearby Battersby from where the purified  product went to the furnaces of Middlesbrough and the Tyne. At its height, 300,000 tonnes a year was being processed, Chimney Top resembling one of those early ‘gold rush towns’ in America. 

A rail track bed snaking its way acrosss the moors. Ideal now for walking.

Twenty-nine years later the great ‘iron rush’ had ended, the seams now exhausted. And peace returned to the moors.  Peace and rain. We'd walked two miles or so along the track, taking the occasional photo. The cloud in the picture below took offence and followed us, shedding its load as we ran back to the car - in my case less a run than an inelegant stumble. Not a pretty sight. Within moments we were drenched. How I longed to dry my jeans alongside a once fiery furnace. Instead we had pictures of clouds.

Wilfrid's Place

 

We were driving past Ripon racecourse when I saw it, The Blackamoor Inn. We both did a doubletake, like all of us sensitised to the latest taboo. It’s hard to believe that such a sign would last long in some parts of Britain, when even ‘The Saracen’s Head’ is deemed controversial. 

By coincidence, it seemed, we saw The Blackamoor again, this time in Ripon Cathedral. What was going on? I remembered the stick Princess Michael got for wearing Blackamoor jewellery once terribly fashionable and still commanding high prices in many parts of Europe. 

 I asked a very nice lady in Ripon Cathedral that same question. ‘What’s going on?’ And like everything in history, things are not black and white. The Blackamoor held pride of place in an C18th stained glass window and was apparently part of the cathredal’s coat of arms, not out of frivolity or exoticism but because he—a family servant—had dived into a swollen river and rescued the son and heir of the local landed family.

The lady confessed that at the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, cathedral authorities had been extremely worried. Might this too be a target? Let’s face it, cathedral windows have long been a target for iconoclasts. 

Another stained glass window portrayed the man who founded Ripon Cathedral: Saint Wilfred. One wonders what he would think of such things.

The name Wilfrid is an old English word meaning one who ‘Desires Peace,’ or ‘Peaceful Ruler’. (Wil or desire and Frid or peace.) Wilfrid in fact was far from peaceful, causing dissent wherever he went. It’s debatable as to whether he was a saint but probably gained the honour, much like a dodgy OBE because he championed Rome and the Roman way of doing things against the indigenous Celtic Church.

Whatever the case, he founded Ripon Cathedral in 672 A.D, in the form of a small Roman basilica. The original crypt still stands, the oldest in Britain. The cathedral was rebuilt, in largely its present form, during the C12th. A tower was rebuilt after an earthquake in 1450 and extra naves added in the early C16th.

Sir Thomas Markenfield  born c.1340 d.1398, fought in the Hundred Years War.  His effigy lies here in the Markenfield chantry chapel on east side of the north transept.

A rood screening the High Altar. Bishops to the left, three random kings to the right

I think St Wilfrid would be impressed. From this

The original crypt of 672 AD

To this

The High Altar and stained glass window - worth zooming in for

The Hidcote Pasty

 

We went to Hidcote on the hottest day of the year. 

The gardens were beautiful, the perfect setting for strawberries, Pimms, and cucumber sandwiches. I though was there for its pasties. 

I’m a huge fan of the Cornish pasty, the perfect food. I could be as rich as Croesus and I’d still forgo filet mignon, lobster, and foi gras for a Cornish pasty.

Squirrels remember their nuts, dogs where they've buried a bone. Some people, especially the incontinent, remember toilets, their location and how far away they are from them. I remember the location of pasties. 

You can buy a fine Cornish pasty at Paddington Station. Tredegar House in Newport sells a good pasty. But to my mind the Hidcote pasty is the finest of all. So inspired was I by it, that I asked the kitchen where they bought them, wrote it down on a piece of paper and lost it two days later. 

The Cornish pasty must never be salty. It must though be peppery. That is essential. But how to eat it?

At Hidcote, I was momentarily flummoxed when they presented it with a knife and fork. I had told them firmly I wanted no green stuff with it. A plain white plate if they insisted. 

But when I sat down, I found myself surrounded by the middle-aged, the genteel and a group of elderly Americans—all of them using the cutlery provided.

Talk about peer pressure.

But the pasty is tactile, meant to be handled – it’s what the lumpy end bit is for, an inbuilt handle allowing you  to stuff the other end into your mouth – or in my case nibble. 

But the peer pressure, those sharp eyed old ladies. I temporarily succumbed out of pragmatism more than anything else. It was just too damn hot, scalding my teeth as I bit into it. Back on the plate it went, the knife and fork proving surprisingly useful in cooling it down while I drank a small pot of tea.

But the joy of taking up the pasty again, pushing plate and cutlery to one side. 

Hidcote is great for flowers, not too sure about its vegan scones, but the pasty is wonderful.