Young and old

I liked the little Rafay Hotel in Blackburn. The industrial fans from the takeaway downstairs made aircraft noises outside my window until about 2am, but there was such a friendly feel to it all – an urban place where you just rub along with your neighbours, and don’t get too worked up about anything.

I pedal a short way to the Chaii Caffe – I like those double letters – for a proper Indian desi breakfast. As I sit looking out of the window, a large group of women – I’m guessing they’re students – goes by, all completely covered, and many of them in full burqas. A pair of police officers across the way are taking a long time questioning a young driver.

Like so many of the cathedrals in industrial cities, Blackburn’s is new. It didn’t become a cathedral until 1926. A 100 year old church was re-purposed, and new bits were added in 1938, 1950, 1961, 1969, 1998, and 2016. They claim, of course, that Christian worship on the site can be traced back to 596, the year before St. Augustine came to Canterbury.

On one side there’s a striking bench fashioned out of zombie knives surrendered to police in an amnesty. On the other there are 15th century misericords, brought from somewhere else, and not quite fitting in.

When I arrive, the cathedral is full of young children. I overhear an explanation of the Christ the Worker sculpture over the West door. Christ is risen, but you can also see echos of earlier days in a fishing boat.

The most recent development here is the garden. Big old tombstones have been repurposed to make a pavement, and in the sunshine the dates stand out starkly. 1849 seems to have been a bad year. Here is a family that lost a baby, and a toddler, and a teenager. The father died, aged 34, in 1850.

I’m approached by one of the school staff. Coincidentally, she says, the children learned something about the cello yesterday. Would I be prepared to play a little something for them before they go?

Unpacking it, while they have an early lunch, I’m dismayed to find that the earlier repair to the bow has failed. All that bumping around on rough roads. The hair has all come out of the tip, its wedge must be somewhere loose in the bag, and I don’t know how to fix it.

It takes me 20 minutes to get it somehow back together. It’s not very good, and there’s a lot of loose hair left over. I tape it up with sticking plaster, more in desperation than confidence.

The children file back in, still wearing their hi-vis vests, and raise their hands to indicate they’re silent and attentive. A later audience is gathering behind them.

This, I tell them, is the most famous piece written for a cello. It’s called The Swan – not because it sounds like one, but because it’s supposed to make you think of one. Yes, they say; it does.

Then lots of questions. Then a quick jig, which gets legs swinging, and a few heads bobbing, before they slip away and we segue smoothly into the Meditation. I’m not to be disappointed, says Dan, the cathedral’s chief officer, by the absence of clergy and staff; they’re all off elsewhere, on a long arranged eucharist and working lunch.

Annie is keen to introduce her husband Steve. Today is their 50th wedding anniversary, and when she saw my visit advertised in the Cathedral’s What’s On, she hid the booklet so she could bring him here as a surprise. They used to cycle 7,000 miles a year, mostly in South America. Steve is as excited as she knew he would be by the sight of such a bicycle as mine.

Annie had earlier rung the cathedral to ask if they could invite me to share their anniversary lunch in the cafe afterwards, but she’d been told I had further to go, and wouldn’t be able to stay.

As indeed I can’t. It’s 107 miles to Carlisle. Originally we’d planned an evening performance, which might just have been possible. But then we brought it forward, to lunchtime, to have a proper celebration of ending. So I’m going to take a celebratory ride on the wonderful Settle to Carlisle railway, and only cycle half way.

But that means I don’t have a lot of time to get 30 miles to Settle, and of course after my earlier experiences I’m nervous about trying to get on the train, so I want to be in good time.

Don’t tell anyone, but I can’t get over the footbridge. So I risk a £1,000 fine crossing the track to get to the north-bound platform. There are no staff here, so no-one sees the trespass, and then I’m safely on the train, and then safely off again, and with only 20 miles left to cycle to Carlisle in the morning. The dark red benches on the platform told me I should Settle Down. Perhaps I’ll do that.