Of Castles and Kings
Well, I went to West Yorkshire today. . .primarily because there was nobody here to talk me out of it. I wanted to see Wakefield because. . .I don’t know. I thought maybe everyone still speaks in alliterative long lines and ends every verse paragraph with a bob and wheel. But no. 
The center of Wakefield-Westgate seems proudly proletariat. Smoking is the main sport. The mothers are very young; the children all suck candy and drink pop non-stop; the teenagers are all punked out, and everyone seems related to everyone else–much like Arkansas. In general, the folk also seem much shorter than elsewhere in England and somewhat beat up; I mean literally bruised and limping. At first, I thought everyone was pissed off all the time, but everyone was actually extremely helpful and friendly whenever I asked for directions. Unfortunately, I could barely understand a word they said. Wakefield used to be known as “the merry city” because you couldn’t trip out of one pub without falling into another–this tradition may explain the bruises. The medieval cathedral survives only as a reconstructed idea, and its space is besieged by Burger-King-Woolworth-Boots-like businesses. The interior was in a shambles. The west end was being used for a charity bazaar, and the east end had a temporary TV booth set up for the taping of a choir service. Oh yeah, and there was actually a prayer service going on too.
After I finally gave up looking for the pageant wagons, my two remaining targets were the Pontefract and Sandal castles. Why you may ask? Excellent question! Both sites are complete ruins. The two people manning the tucked-away and otherwise empty Tourist Information Office seemed totally surprised to by my inquiry. One actually walked me to the necessary bus stop. Since it took so long to train from Cambridge, it seemed unlikely that I would see both sites before dusk, so they recommended I start with Pontefract (formerly pronounced “Pomfret” but now “Ponty-frack”).
The town of Pontefract is itself another very blue collar “do-we-have-a-castle?” burg about a half hour east of Wakefield. But “bloody Pontefract” is where Richard II died (was hacked to death?). King James I of Scotland (about whose poem I wrote my master’s thesis) and Charles d’Orleans were also imprisoned there. So I was feeling all Tintern-Abbeyish. I got back to Wakefield with about an hour to go before sunset. To get to Sandal Castle ten minutes south of town, I had to take a different bus. I was told by a driver to catch the 110 in front of “Gay Bar” just two blocks over. Well, I’m not quite sure how he defined “block,” but when I didn’t see anything resembling a bus stop I suddenly realized I might have to ask a surly little bruised Yorkshireman “Where’s the gay bar?” But then a blessed revelation. . .the bus itself appeared and stopped in front of “The Gate Bar.” The new bus driver told me when to get off, but there are zero signs for the Sandal Castle until you are actually at its entrance. 
It’s behind a row of very posh homes, and the locals seem to want to keep it secret as their private dog park. Sandal is where the Battle of Wakefield was fought in 1460. 
Apparently, Duke Richard of York had gone to Merry Wakefield for a few pints and got caught tripping back to the castle. Red Rose 1, White Rose 0.
The center of Wakefield-Westgate seems proudly proletariat. Smoking is the main sport. The mothers are very young; the children all suck candy and drink pop non-stop; the teenagers are all punked out, and everyone seems related to everyone else–much like Arkansas. In general, the folk also seem much shorter than elsewhere in England and somewhat beat up; I mean literally bruised and limping. At first, I thought everyone was pissed off all the time, but everyone was actually extremely helpful and friendly whenever I asked for directions. Unfortunately, I could barely understand a word they said. Wakefield used to be known as “the merry city” because you couldn’t trip out of one pub without falling into another–this tradition may explain the bruises. The medieval cathedral survives only as a reconstructed idea, and its space is besieged by Burger-King-Woolworth-Boots-like businesses. The interior was in a shambles. The west end was being used for a charity bazaar, and the east end had a temporary TV booth set up for the taping of a choir service. Oh yeah, and there was actually a prayer service going on too.
After I finally gave up looking for the pageant wagons, my two remaining targets were the Pontefract and Sandal castles. Why you may ask? Excellent question! Both sites are complete ruins. The two people manning the tucked-away and otherwise empty Tourist Information Office seemed totally surprised to by my inquiry. One actually walked me to the necessary bus stop. Since it took so long to train from Cambridge, it seemed unlikely that I would see both sites before dusk, so they recommended I start with Pontefract (formerly pronounced “Pomfret” but now “Ponty-frack”).
The town of Pontefract is itself another very blue collar “do-we-have-a-castle?” burg about a half hour east of Wakefield. But “bloody Pontefract” is where Richard II died (was hacked to death?). King James I of Scotland (about whose poem I wrote my master’s thesis) and Charles d’Orleans were also imprisoned there. So I was feeling all Tintern-Abbeyish. I got back to Wakefield with about an hour to go before sunset. To get to Sandal Castle ten minutes south of town, I had to take a different bus. I was told by a driver to catch the 110 in front of “Gay Bar” just two blocks over. Well, I’m not quite sure how he defined “block,” but when I didn’t see anything resembling a bus stop I suddenly realized I might have to ask a surly little bruised Yorkshireman “Where’s the gay bar?” But then a blessed revelation. . .the bus itself appeared and stopped in front of “The Gate Bar.” The new bus driver told me when to get off, but there are zero signs for the Sandal Castle until you are actually at its entrance. 
It’s behind a row of very posh homes, and the locals seem to want to keep it secret as their private dog park. Sandal is where the Battle of Wakefield was fought in 1460. 
Apparently, Duke Richard of York had gone to Merry Wakefield for a few pints and got caught tripping back to the castle. Red Rose 1, White Rose 0.
posted by Bill Quinn | 3:11 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home