Day 12 Lazy Saturday afternoon in Bishop Wilton

Yesterday we forgot to mention Stamford Bridge, which we drove through on route to and from York. We both had a vague recollection of hearing of "The Battle of Stamford Bridge" but knew nothing more. It's a fascinating story.  In 1066, King Harold soundly defeated the Norwegian king, Harald Hardrada in a huge and bloody battle that left the Norwegians decimated and the Anglo-Saxons wounded and war-weary. Anglo King Harold and his troops were expecting a Norman invasion any minute, but when he got wind of the Norwegians making pests of themselves oop north, he and his troops galloped to York from London and caught the Scandos by surprise. (One imagines it could have been confusing for the locals: Q: "Whose side are you on?" A: "King Harold's".  Q: "Did you say King Harald's?"  A: "No, I said King Harold's."  "Oh!")  Anyway, next thing Harold and his weary troops bolted back to the south, and three weeks later the Normans invaded, the Battle of Hastings was fought, Harold was killed, the Normans were victorious and the rest is history.  And who knows - if not for the Battle of Stamford Bridge depleting their numbers, Harold's troops may have been victorious against William the Conqueror.  There are a couple of stone monuments in Stamford Bridge commemorating the battle but there is no agreed position on exactly where at Stamford Bridge it was fought, but it's considered one of the worst blood baths ever with thousands and thousands of casualties, mainly on the Norwegian side.    

Moving on, with the Tour de Yorkshire bike race in full swing today, we decided to stick close to home-base, so this morning we took a brisk botany ramble around the village.  We walked down the lane outside our house and the realised after about 200 metres we had entered in someone's front

yard so had to beat a hasty retreat.

Then we walked up the lane towards the village CBD, where we encountered our landlady and her sweet, 15-year-old Labby, as well as a country squire and his two splendid Golden Retrievers, which both smothered us in licks and the sheep shite they had been rolling in. 






Then we headed up another lane to St Edith of Wilton Church, which, like so many churches in England, dates back to Norman times.  It's quite large and I guess must have been
a sort of community hub in centuries past as I don't imagine the population of Bishop Wilton was ever huge - it's only 500 now. 

I put a pound in an honesty box for a history of the church and it's a very interesting read.  St Edith was born in Wilton, the ancient capital of Wiltshire, in 961. Her mother was Wulfthryth (a splendid name perhaps for the new royal sprog!) and her father was King Edgar.  Wulfthryth became an Abbess and Edith was raised to a life of privilege. But under her fine clothes she always wore a hair shirt and did good works. She died at 23 and was made a saint by her half-brother, King Aethelred.     



      One of Edith's biggest fans was King Cnut (whose name I shall Anglicise to Canute, this being a family-friendly blog).  Canute was always invoking St Edith to deliver him from various evils and she mostly seemed to come up with the goods.  Consequently the abbey where she had lived with her mother was rich and influential.

Another of Edith's many fans after her death was Ealdred, who became Archbishop of York in 1061. While Bishop of Worcester he had crowned King Harold and it's believed that after Ealdred became

Archbishop of York, Harold entrusted all the war booty from his victory at the Battle of Stamford Bridge to Ealdred, while he headed south to fight the Normans at the Battle of Hastings.  Is anyone still with me?  Good - nearly done!  So it was Ealdred, who inherited heaps of land and property as Archbishop of York, who brought the name and legend of St Edith to the little village of Bishop Wilton.   

We then went looking for the remains of a 12th century abbey (in a paddock across from the local primary school) but without success.

But we were very pleased to see this handsome horse clip-clopping down the street pulling a cart.  We saw the farmer and horse twice during our outing and the farmer discussed the weather with us both times. By the way, we don't think the farmer owns the Audi.  Blue is not his colour.
               




All this history has left me needing a refreshing beverage. Should I have a pot of Taylor's of Harrogate finest Yorkshire tea and an eccles cake?  Or a glass of Italian Pinot Grigio (6 pounds at Sainsbury's) and some cheese and bickies?  What a silly question.

Over now to Geoff, who will be discussing today's shopping list for our return trip to Sainsburys at Pocklington. This was where, with a huge effort, he crashed through the fire door on Thursday. We both wore false moustaches when we went there today, in case we were recognised.  I think we got away with it.                                                                 

Pocklington is a market town and the most substantial in the vicinity of our own Bishop Wilton.  The reasons for its notoriety are too numerous to mention, but I'll content myself with just one.  It has an annual beer festival to rival Munich's, that it calls ... wait for it ... Pocktoberfest.  No don't applaud too wildly yet, I'm just warming up.  A pleasant stroll can be had around the oldish part of the town, which indeed we did.  Lots of narrow streets and quaint shops, but more genuine than some of its more touristy neighbours.  We liked it a lot.  And we passed no fewer than four pubs within about 20 minutes.  One advertised a Black Sheep product, which we'll have to sample in due course.

Speaking of which ... we did make a pilgrimage to our Bishop Wilton local, the Fleece, last night.  They have three guest ales on hand pump.  I had an excellent Theakston Bitter.  Unfortunately, our barmaid was obviously having a bad night.  Not only did we not get the warm reception we had hoped would await weary travellers, she was positively dismissive.  A bit disappointing, but I guess the era of the uniformly cosy village pub has not survived the 21st century.  Anyway, this is the Fleece:

Not the oldest or most charming building in the village.  Hard to compete with St Edith's after all.  In fact, it's extraordinary that such a small village has such an impressive and ancient church, that's still in regular use.  Just to show that my interest in not confined to beer, here's another shot of the graves surrounding the church.

The headstones that are legible date from the late 18th century to 2013.  No doubt some are considerably older.  All in all, quite a civilised corner of Yorkshire.  And seemingly a million miles from the Tour de Yorkshire that mercifully passed us by earlier in the day.

St Anne of the Adenoids here again - I have a miracle to perform in the kitchen with a loaf and two fishes. Fortunately I do not have to feed the 5000.  Till tomorrow! xxxx