Holidays in the period



Growing up as poor as church mice, in a family of seven, living in a terraced house in Headingley. We were very fortunate to have family friends who with incredible generosity, could provide us all with much needed holiday in their homes, Chapel Fold in Grassington and Birkby Grange Farm, Thorner.

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Birkby Grange Farm - present day.

Staying with Reg Umpleby

During the summer of 1971, our entire family had the privilege of spending several weeks on Birkby Grange  farm in Thorner. The farmer, Reg Umpleby, was a friend of my father and had a quintessentially Yorkshire name associated with East Yorkshire.

The farmhouse itself was incredibly basic, with open fires, a large table, and an Aga cooker in the kitchen. There was no running water, as we had to draw water from a well in the front garden. The absence of carpets, minimal furniture, and lack of curtains did not diminish the warm and inviting atmosphere of the place.

To accommodate everyone, we filled palliasses with straw and used them as beds, placing them on the wooden floors. Our daily routine began withdrawing water from the well into buckets and jugs. We would then assist with the farm animals, followed by fruit and berry picking throughout the day. In the evenings, our time was occupied with breadmaking, preserving and jam making. On several days of the week, we would cut firewood, a task that we found enjoyable using a chainsaw and an axe. This experience was a world away from our usual environment in the terraced houses of Headingley.

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A trip to Grassington for the whole family and the Sunday school

During the summer months, our family would eagerly anticipate the arrival of our mother's friends from Grassington. They would collect us using their furniture removal van, which we would load with all our essentials, beds, mattresses, chests of drawers brimming with clothes. Excitement coursed through our veins as we prepared to embark on our journey, leaving behind the terraced streets and coal fires of the city. Grassington beckoned us, promising a glimpse of another world.

Upon our arrival, we were warmly welcomed by the Thompson family, who resided in Chapel Fold, a charming old chapel that had been partially converted into a home. The main meeting room, now mostly empty and re purposed as a gymnasium, with wall bars, hand grips on roof supports etc. an adventure ground for children had been created. This room would become our temporary haven. We transformed the space into a cosy retreat, setting up our beds and making ourselves at home. With four adults and nine children in the chapel, our visits were a joyful shared experience with endless adventure.

Mr. Thompson, a skilled furniture maker and restorer, operated his workshop just opposite the chapel. His craftsmanship was renowned, and he created exquisite pieces that stood as testaments to his dedication and expertise. 

These interludes in Grassington gifted us with more than just a change of scenery. They were reminders of the inherent beauty in life's unexpected twists and turns, the harmonious blend of craftsmanship, community, and the joys of rural existence. And as we bid farewell to Grassington, its echoes lingered in our hearts, a cherished memory etched forever in our family's narrative.

For our family, accustomed to humble meals and my mother's culinary misadventures, Mrs. Thompson's culinary mastery was a revelation. We gazed in awe as she effortlessly conjured delectable treats from scratch. In a household where the scent of freshly baked bread permeated the air, and the rhythmic crackling of coal-filled stoves provided a comforting soundtrack, we were transported to a realm of abundance and flavour.

During this particular trip, following several previous years extended stays, our entourage had expanded, as the Sunday school held in our home had accompanied us. The kitchen now accommodated a gathering of seven adults and twenty-six

 children, a joyous assembly that filled the room with laughter and anticipation. Around the expansive kitchen table, we sat shoulder to shoulder, ready to partake in a feast fit for royalty.

Cycling in the Yorkshire dales

Four of us ages just 12 set off to cycle to Otley, tyhings did not go to plan, after breakfast at Dunnies, we decided to ride further, breakdowns meant constant pit stops including one at Summerbridge, we were getting further and further away from home, eventually we tried to book into a Youth Hostel at Dacre Banks, despite us being 12 years old, members and it now being late, and dark in February, we were turned away because we were on bicycles. Eventually we ended up at the camp site adjacent to Howstean Gorge where one of our parents had a caravan, that was a ling cold hungry night, no blankets, no fire, no food, no lights. I persuaded my father to drive out and collect us the next day, our bikes remained in the van until Easter.

A family holiday in Staithes

My father was as usual in the summer attending the YL (Young Life a Christian group) beach missions in nearby Whitby where the group would sleep on camp beds in the church, then hold Sunday school style meetings on the beach twice a day, my mother on previous years had travelled to the coast in the hope of finding a last minute cancellation by knocking on self-catering accommodation doors, this had been successful previously, but on this occasion, no accommodation could be found. Hence we travelled up the coast to Staithes, where she found a tiny house, next door to Captain Cook's cottage that was available, and cheap.

Image of the old bridge at Sligachen with the Culin mountains

Camping trip to Skye

Out of the blue in 1973, family friends announced that they would be travelling to the Isle of Skye for a camping trip, they had two spare places and wondered if my sister Fiona and I would like to come with them.

The camping trip to the Isle of Skye was a truly unforgettable adventure, etched into my memory as one of the most remarkable experiences of my youth. The journey itself was an adventure in its own right, as we embarked on a long car ride to reach our destination. The lack of motorways in the early 1970s meant that the journey was slower, but it also allowed us to take in the scenic beauty of the countryside along the way.

Arriving at Skye by ferry was a moment filled with excitement and anticipation. As we set foot on the island, the air was filled with a sense of adventure and exploration. We wasted no time in setting up our campsite in the fields near the Sligachan Hotel, where we would spend the next few days immersed in the beauty of nature.

The campsite itself was nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Cuillin mountains, their rugged peaks standing tall and imposing. The views from our campsite were nothing short of breathtaking, with the river flowing nearby and the famous old stone bridge adding a touch of charm to the surroundings. It was a perfect spot to immerse ourselves in the tranquillity of nature and escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

During our camping trip, there were certain rules in place, particularly regarding alcohol consumption. As teenagers, we were given some leeway, with beer being deemed acceptable as long as we were discreet and didn't get caught. In the evenings, our group would gather around the campfire, joining other outdoor enthusiasts who shared tales of their own adventures. It was during these moments that the three girls and I would venture out into the long grass, carefully hiding our beer bottles, and join the group, savouring the taste of freedom and the camaraderie of fellow campers.