Up and Down in the Dales by Gervase Phinn

Author:Gervase Phinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141924588
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2008-10-16T04:00:00+00:00

13

‘Well, I must say, you might have done your homework, old boy.’ It was Monday morning in the office and I had just told Sidney and David about my disastrous weekend and the demolition of the Methodist chapel. Sidney was his usual unsympathetic self and I soon wished I had kept the whole sorry business to myself. ‘This county is crammed full of old ruins,’ he announced, leaning back on his chair and placing his hands behind his head. ‘You can’t turn a corner without finding an abbey or priory or castle or some medieval church or other. It’s not Milton Keynes, you know. You should have guessed this charming and antiquated little construction would be of historic interest.’

‘It was a ruin, Sidney,’ I told him, ‘not a charming and antiquated little construction, as you put it. It was a broken-down ramshackle building with two walls and no roof. I’ve looked through the deeds of the cottage and there is nothing about any Methodist chapel on my property.’ I was trying to convince myself that I was blowing things out of all proportion. ‘It’s called an outbuilding and if it were a listed building it would say so – wouldn’t it?’

‘It’s in the National Park, your cottage, isn’t it?’ remarked Sidney, leaning even further back in his chair.

‘Yes, it is. Why?’

Sidney sucked in his breath dramatically. ‘Well, they slap preservation orders on everything from a pigsty to a cesspit in the National Park. You can’t change a tile on your roof without permission. You know, I did warn you, Gervase, before you bought that crumbling pile that you would be far better off in a smart riverside apartment or a modern town house in Fettlesham, within walking distance of the office. Now, I’m no expert on the matter –’

‘Well, there’s a first,’ remarked David, looking up from his papers and over the top of his spectacles. ‘You’re an expert on every other blessed thing.’

‘But, what I will say,’ continued Sidney blithely, ‘is that I well recall the hoo-hah when they knocked down those derelict outside toilets at the little school at Tarncliffe. You know the school, Gervase, next door to the rather attractive little grey-stone Primitive Methodist chapel where John Wesley was reputed to have preached. They were pre-Victorian, by all accounts, these privvies, and the only examples of their kind in Yorkshire, possibly in the country. Everyone thought they were an eyesore – the headteacher, Miss Drayton, her assistant, that rather fussy Mrs Standish, all the governors and parents. They were small, smelly, damp and disgusting and they harboured rats, just like your old building. Well, no sooner were they down than up jumps the local historical society and claims they were unique and had been used by many a famous person passing through, if you will excuse the unintended pun, on their way to York and were of unimaginable historical importance. They were hoping to put up one of those blue plaques saying, “Emily Brontë sat here”.’

‘Take no notice, Gervase,’ David reassured me.

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