To that lonely man of Quernmore

The England that was

A big house stands lonely in remote Lancashire in the hilly countryside that looks far away from anything known bequeathed in a legacy to a man who served a family for a long time, and it became his hideaway.

Born in the closing of the Depression just as the Second World War began, to a young couple who might have ancestry that stretched to the ends of Yorkshire, steeped in the Victorian working-class values of duty and service, of which they were obviously exemplary.

The road sign to this village is one of those English placenames that is a Shibboleth, it sets apart the locals from the outsiders, and fascinating it is.

Happy and sad together

And 80 years to the day, tragedy and fortune struck, in Arnhem a father never returned and in Lancaster, a girl was born, and so was a life so marked from that day until the very end. He was the grandson of grieving parents as his mother cradled his little sister in her arms.

This is not my story, but one for which I seek to remember a man who was uncle to my friend. We all have uncles that we fondly remember, who we know and yet do not, whose persona reveals cleaves of the unsearchable travails of life represented in their quirks and tics.

In the passage of time, mother passed on for he never left her side to travel or get married, a lifelong protector even from a boy, seeing duty like he might have been told by his father as he left for war, make sure you take care of your mother. And now, he also had a little sister to watch over too.

The forever memories

When I met him during my many memorable sojourns to Lancaster for Christmas, his impression of things might have belonged to a forgotten age, but nothing he said was out of malice, it was a way of making conversation and you dug deep for wit and laughter rather than take offence.

I knew once the bond that brought us all together at Christmas had gone, he would become a total recluse back in his big house out of reach and out of sight, usually sought by his nephew and rarely seen except for letters and notes. He was free from the oath to care for his mother and the rest of the world could care for itself.

No one could blame him and what might never have been truly known was he was both liked and loved, every visit to another village in Lancashire would include the thought to ask after him. We sadly learnt that he had left his footprints in the sands of time now only to be remembered with a sigh and in dreams.

The lonely man of Quernmore (KWOR-mər) is gone. May his gentle soul rest in peace.

A flying visit to Lancaster

Things to do in Lancaster

I was in Lancaster for the weekend to honour a remarkable woman who passed away last week at 92.

It was what you might call a flying visit, into Manchester on Sunday morning and well, I did not know a cab ride to Lancaster would have traversed 100 miles – anyway, it was all well arranged, one can no more rely on the jumbled railway system that charges rip-off prices to travel by bus in the United Kingdom nowadays.

My hotel was the Premier Inn, a group of budget hotels that offer the minimalist and no more – I cannot remember when last I stayed in a hotel room without a phone, wireless connectivity is more or less standard for the dog-house – there were no viable choices.

A hotel that has Lenny Henry as their big advertising face could well have funny deals but not ones one would call sophisticated – however, they would appeal to a certain clientele.

Lancaster is an old city and it is quite provincial too, for most of the 90s I spent Christmas with a family that could well be my family in Europe in a village (Brookhouse) where you could point to the cow that produced the milk and name the chicken that laid the eggs.

Thoughts and realities

However, considering the occasion, alternative arrangements had to be made as I ventured to the “restaurant” Cottams Field Restaurant attached to the hotel.

My thinking did not connect with the possibilities – I was in a restaurant and had to order at the bar, then I was offered the opportunity to pay immediately – that struck fear in me.

I had ordered a Sunday roast; lamb being the meat of the dish, thinking of good old England and the sheep in the fields not too far away – this after I had had to ask if both my drinks and food would be brought to my table.

When my drinks arrived, none were poured as one would expect in a “restaurant”, I was beginning to think, what I am doing here.

Meanwhile, the locals just got into the flow, if you have never had good service, you will never bother about bad service.

Toughening the meats

The Sunday roast arrived, my lamb without mint sauce, I could live with that, but by the time I put my fork on the lamb and could hardly dent it and my knife could hardly cut it, I could have put my shoes in my plate and had more tender leather to chew.

I put my fork and knife aside and began to gobble down my drinks when the barman came round to ask if everything was fine, I mumbled something about the lamb being really tough – I politely refused another offering of lamb hide or the choice of deserts as I promptly made for the door.

If I though all would be well at breakfast, the sausages were no doubt annealed – it must be a new cooking technique in that kitchen.

Later on Sunday, I did have a real home-made roast and my lamb was just as tender as one should have it.