Historic Lancaster

Today's post is a goddam history fest – you're in for such a treat today. Get ready for a gazillion photos of historic Lancaster. But first, we begin with what just last week became a completely normal sight at any time of day – the empty road.

I've walked up and down this road many, many times with my boys because it's the road into town. Lancaster town, that is. Whether 'town' refers to Lancaster or Morecambe depends on where you were born, I think. Even if I lived in Morecambe, Lancaster would still be 'town'. Like, 'I'm goin' into town – d'you want owt?' (you should read that in a Lancashire accent). 

Do you remember that ugly blue train bridge from the other day? It looks like this close up. Even more impressive, no? I'll be up there in a minute ... or, I was up there in a minute. Tut, you know what I mean.

The train bridge might be ugly, but it does afford you this quite lovely view of half of the city. Yes, I've now called it a city, even though we call it town. Sorry, but that's just the way it is. Lancaster is a very small city that is a town. Make of that what you will.

It's here because it used to be a port, before the river got silted up. I could take some time to tell you how famous my family were here 250 years ago, but I don't know any of the details so I'd have to make it up. If you're terribly interested, you could go and Google the Rawlinsons of Lancaster (Lancashire) – that's us. We built ships, I think. Or bought ships. Something to do with ships. That's really all I know. Oh, one was called Thomas, and another one was called Abram.

Here, I just wanted to show you how spectacularly ugly this train bridge is from the top. It used to scare me to death walking this way to school. Incidentally, is it me, or are trains a lot quieter than they used to be? One went past while I was up here this evening and I barely noticed it, but I remember them being terrifyingly loud when I was little.

Here we are, now then – a bit of history. I want to say that this is a Georgian building, but I don't know if it is. I don't think I'm unusual in knowing almost nothing about my town's beginnings. I remember once watching an interview with the actors from the series Vikings, and the Swedish actor Gustaf Skarsgård said that most Swedes don't know anything about their Viking ancestry or history. So it's not just me. (I'm pretty sure I've got Viking blood, though.)

Anyway, so, yeah, this possibly-Georgian building is the Maritime Museum. And the reason I know that there was a Thomas and an Ambram Rawlinson is because their potraits are hanging in here. There's a portrait of a female Rawlinson as well, but I can't remember her name. Mary, Margaret ... possibly Agnes. I really don't know. I once stared at her picture for about 20 minutes and in the end I decided she was the spitting image of me.

A bit further along the quay from the museum, you see all of these really old houses, most of which used to be warehouses. There's one really wonky house that I think gets photographed a lot, but I forgot to snap it. I'd quite like to live in one of these.

So, as I'd made it across the river and along the quay, I thought I might as well go up to the castle. What I did forget was that 'up' did actually mean uphill. Now, Matthew and I have walked quite a few miles this week. What I also forgot is that there's quite a world of difference between walking on the flat and walking up something like this:

It's possible that, if you don't know this is quite a steep incline, it will look flat. It isn't. It's a steep incline. Turns out that my lungs need some work. But that's okay, because the view at the top is quite nice and, honestly, I didn't really want to be anywhere else other than enjoying my walk, wherever it took me, taking pictures of crap to show you.

It's happened – I've started taking photos of flora. Auntie Trish, you know about flowers and that, don't you? What's this jazzy one? (I'm asking my Auntie Trish because I know she's been reading this.)

So, you make it to the top of that steep incline, past the Roman bath house (I didn't take a photo, it's a bit of grass), and you're rewarded with this – Lancaster Priory.

Really, I wanted it to look more impressive, but it just needs a good sandblast! It's dead gorgeous inside though. Like, I'm not a church person at all, but I do enjoy a nice quiet sit in this impressive building. Not today, of course, because the churches are all closed.

As is the castle.

Okay, what happened here is that I tried to get you a really great picture of the castle. I've always really loved the fact that we have a proper castle – it's just dead cool. Unfortunately, when you do get up here, it's completely surrounded by trees and you can't see much of it. Sorry about that.

I got the front door for you, though, and you can see it's got those proper crenellations and a portcullis and everything.

Since I'd come this far, I was curious to see what town actually looked like during a lockdown. It's just at the other side of the castle, so I toddled over and saw this:

Totally empty, with traffic lights still changing for the traffic that isn't there. So weird.

Empty here in ye olde bit as well:

Well, anyway, by now, it was time for my cup of tea. You'll have been wondering whether I was going to stop for a cup of tea – possibly even worrying that I might not. You'll almost definitely have been wondering where the hell Matthew was, since I've not properly mentioned him. Well, the poor wee fella has been worn out by the masses of exercise that he's not used to, so I let him have a day off. I think he's earned it. I, however, have started on a mission to walk every day and blog about it until I die! And, by the gods, I will do it! (I have a really, truly appalling memory, though, so it's entirely possible that one day I will just forget to walk and that will be it.)

As is the case with many very old churches, the front of the Priory has a bunch of ancient gravestones that people tend to sit on in the summer for picnics and rests and such. This is where I sat for my cup of tea. I've never noticed this particular stone before, but, apparently, Pete couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted to be with Fran or Sally in 1983. I wonder if they both binned him off in the end. Maybe Fran and Sally ended up together. That would be cool.

Getting a bit dark now, but I sat here for aaaaaages, chuckling to myself at some of the memories that came to mind. This was where I used to come with my first boyfriend and our mates to engage in some joyous underage drinking. Ah, really good times.

While I was here, someone somewhere in town starting playing Ed Sheeran really, really loudly. Now, to me, this was wonderful – a real special lockdown moment. Because, and I'm not ashamed to say it, I love Ed Sheeran. But what the hell is it about the boy that makes people so angry?! People really hate Ed Sheeran.

Before we wind down for the evening, because I was on my way back home soon after this, I'd just like to share with you this lady. I drew her for my Art GCSE. She was a lot less filthy (in fact, she was completely white), but she had already lost her head by then. This was during my goth phase. I called her Genevieve. 

I'd had enough by now, and, honestly, it's not quite as much fun without Matthew. So I headed home. And there I was, thinking, it's alright, it's all downhill, I'll be home soon. I forgot about the ugly train bridge and these:

I used to carry my bike up these steps when I rode it to school. Now, I reach the top sounding like a wounded elephant.

But you do get this view from the top, which is probably worth it.

Until tomorrow, when Matthew will be back.

WQ