Edinburgh: Our Last Stop

Goodbye, Mum

It was a grey day in Gourock but we had decided not to visit the crematorium where Dad had been laid to rest. Contrary to what we had originally thought, there was no commemorative plaque to visit and we wanted a meaningful resting place for Mum.
So after breakfast we put the rest of Mum's ashes in the Clyde, the river she had lived alongside for many of her young motherhood years and to which she had returned in her retirement.  

We were filled with emotion and drained after the past two days visiting our roots. The rain matched our moods and we saw no point in sightseeing our way across Scotland toward Edinburgh. The one hundred and twenty kilometres were covered in short order on the motorway and we arrived at Dunedin Guest House before many of the guests had finished their breakfasts. 

dressed for the wet, we enjoy a brief respite

 
This B&B was rather a long way from the tourist centre of Edinburgh but we parked our luggage and took the bus into town despite the wind and the rain. Between our long lunch, time spent sheltering in the magnificent cathedral, popping in and out of shops along the Royal Mile, we managed not to get too soaked. 

the windows of the cathedral - light-filled despite the grey day

 
And then we found the museum! Ah what a treasure. We stayed until it closed. I found the stuffed "Dolly, the first cloned sheep" fascinating but it was hard to get William away from Jackie Stewart's famous racing car. All the while Robert was snapping pictures of the architectural wonders of the old building. And to think that the admission was free.

the glass atrium of the Edinburgh museum

At closing time, we were hurried out of the museum and caught a cab to a pub near the flat of Victoria, William's daughter and our niece, who goes to vet school in Edinburgh. Then we went to a lovely restaurant and had a long and rather filling dinner before retiring for the night.  

The wind howled and the rain beat upon the window panes all night long. And surprise, it was still raining when we got up.

 

exploring the byways of the Royal Mile

Not to be deterred, we ventured back to The Royal Mile, investigated George Street and its shops, spent some time in the National Art Gallery, wandered down into the Haymarket area, toured the Scottish Parliament, visited the grave of Greyfriars Bobby and once again finished the afternoon in the museum. 

The Parliament, the Art Gallery and the Museum were all highlights but they couldn't top my emotional attachment to the story of Greyfriars Bobby and the charmingly illustrated books I bought in the museum gift shop.

the statue of  Greyfriars Bobby and my books

 
And of course we ended the day in the Greyfriars Bobby Pub recapping our entire two weeks together before toddling off to a fancy restaurant in a nearby boutique hotel that was probably not quite our cup of tea and whose food was no better than average.

We chatted through our last meal together (of this trip at least) until we went back to the B&B and Rob and I picked up our luggage to travel to an airport hotel. It was a brief night of sleep before our early morning flight.

Our journey back to our birthplaces had been, at times, emotional; always full of laughter and shared memories of our family life; frequently fueled by evening drinks and good food. It was a time together that we will never forget. Our parents, dear Rae and Bob, would have been pleased to see their children on this journey. We hope they are happy with their final resting places and with our commemorative pilgrimage. And we thank you, Mum, for making it happen.

a final "beer hour" in the Pub of  Greyfriars Bobby, Edinburgh

How special it was for us, as three middle-aged siblings, to share two weeks of  love, laughter and stories. It may never happen again but the memories of this time will always sustain our relationships.

The Firth of Clyde: Home of the Paternal Roots and our Childhood

The Firth of Clyde

We were awakened early by the Saturday market being set up on the main street below us after enduring the noisy Friday night pub goers until well into the wee hours. It was not much of a sleep and we were anxious to leave The Queen's Hotel and resume a quiet drive out of the Lake Country. Once again, the scenery did not disappoint us.

a pasture just outside Keswick

Then it was the motorway, leaving England and entering Scotland, birthplace of our father and our youngest brother, William. We were headed for the Firth of Clyde where Dad was born, where all three of us lived when we were small and Dad worked in the shipyards of the Clyde and the place where our parents retired and where Dad died. It was another trip down memory lane and one which Robert hadn't taken since he was a wee lad. 

The Firth of Clyde: pleasure craft now not shipbuilding

We had booked into a small hotel, The Spinnaker Inn, just on the outskirts of Gourock, a short ferry ride from Kirn where our parents lived when they retired. Although it was on the main road, it had a nice little restaurant and bar and good views over the Clyde. We were there in time for lunch partially due to our speedy escape from Keswick.

The Spinnaker Inn, Gourock

In our usual fashion we made the most of the afternoon by first making some enquiries into the crematoriums in the area in order to find the final resting place of our Dad. One of the worries of this trip was that we seem to have "lost" our Dad. After he died, I had travelled to Scotland for his funeral; but Mum had been in such poor shape that I could not go with the coffin to the crematorium across the water in Gourock. My recollection had been that I had paid for a commemorative plaque to be placed on a wall there. We had not been able to find his name in any records of the crematorium. We had so wanted to put Mum's ashes with those of our Dad.

Having hit a brick wall with our enquiries we took the passenger ferry from Gourock to Dunoon and wandered the little town at the end of the afternoon. Not much had changed since I had been there last when Dad had died but Robert found it interesting.We did ask various people in the right age bracket if they knew of a couple of Dad's cronies who had lived in the town all their lives. We came up empty.

a drink in one of the many pubs of Dunoon

As usual it was not long before we found a pub to rest and reminisce.
We caught an early evening ferry back to Gourock and as we were walking back to the hotel, we were very cold. A neighbourhood Indian food restaurant popped up and we decided to eat the other national food of the UK. If not fish and chips then Indian. And very good it was too.

sunset on the Firth of Clyde

the mystery plaque

In the morning we drove the car on the other ferry to Kirn for our planned attendance at the church where Dad's funeral had been held. As we were early. we went up to the Golf Club which was now a new building and rather dark and dreary. We wandered around looking at old photos trying to find our Dad or some of his cronies.  We eventually found a young lady to ask about the Dad's Army old codgers golf group but, although she had heard of it, it seems they had now disbanded as most of the members had passed on. We explained our mission and kept wandering around. After a trip to the washroom, I hunted for my brothers. only to eventually find them in the billiard room. Lo and behold they had found a framed picture of me and the Dad's Army bunch at the memorial golf tournament that we had held after Dad's death. There was a nice little gold plaque on the frame commemorating our Dad, Robert Turner. The "remembered plaque" mystery was solved.

Although, we didn't have to go to church looking for information, we did, and enjoyed the packed service and the very friendly female minister. Our story and our origins soon made the rounds and we were welcomed to the area. 

the bakery - last attached row house on right

After the service we drove around the Holy Loch to Blairmore on the other side of the Clyde to where our Dad had passed his early childhood, brought up by his aunt and his uncle who was the local baker. Their bakery is now a gift shop and was closed that Sunday morning but the house above it is still lived in. The pier where our father passed many of his summer days watching the ships and waiting for the delivery boats is in better shape than it was forty years ago.

                                                                                         

the remains of the bakehouse and stables

We enjoyed our "wander around" looking at the bakehouse and the derelict stables where the delivery cart and horses were kept and gazing out over the Clyde from the pier.                                                                                                 

on the pier of Blairmore: where Dad lived as a child

And then we drove to the childhood home we remembered on Millburn Avenue in Clydebank. William was born there, Dad worked in the shipyards of the Clyde then, and Robert and I attended Yoker School. We found it all to be much as we remembered it. 

William was born in this house

The house is lived in and well cared for, the corner store still serves the community, the church on the main road is still imposing against the sky-line and our school, while no longer a school, still stands in all its long-lasting stone finery. The creek, or burn as the Scots call it, where we used to play and where William fell in as a very small boy, (which was all Robert's fault) seems to have dried up.

We parked the car and walked for hours. Who would ever let small children walk that far to school on their own. nowadays? But we did and we are here to tell the tale. All the people who eyed us suspiciously and asked if they could help us, became enchanted with our story and fed us all kinds of extraneous information about our old neighbourhood.

the church still crowns the hill

 

the sign was mostly overgrown

the stone of the school will never collapse

 

 

 

an emotional but rewarding day

 

Keswick in the Lake District

the Lake District

After a genuinely sorrowful parting from darling Anna, we negotiated some difficult turns and twists on local roads and a busy motorway stretch until we finally got to the rolling hills and quiet roads of the Lake District. We noticed how many hiking groups there were, parking cars along the road-side and heading up into the fields of sheep and over the hills and far away.

The Lake District

Our route took us near Kendal, where William and I had stayed on a holiday with Dad in 1970, and then near Windermere and Grasmere. We didn't go in search of all things "Beatrix Potter" but we did remark on the hordes of tourists wandering the streets of the delightful town of Grasmere. Despite its "busyness", we reflected that it would have made a terrific overnight stop.

Everywhere you look in the area there are tidy grey, drystone walls and buildings: the perfect foil for the bright green of the lush plantings. At every turn you are beckoned onwards until you expect to encounter Lancelot or Merlin or old Arthur himself.
It is indeed the land of fairy tales or at very least a PBS special such as Downton Abbey.


When we finally arrived at our destination, The Queen's Hotel in Keswick, we had been treated to such beauty of landscape and charm of villages, that we were frankly disappointed. 

the main pedestrian area of Keswick

The hotel was smack on the main street but it was old rather than quaint; shabby rather than cared for and it tainted our view of what was probably a charming town.

William and I are the beginning of the lake promenade

 So we did the sensible thing and walked out of town toward the lake. Yes there are lakes, plenty of them in the Lake District.and Keswick sits on a very large one.

Boats on the lake at Keswick

As we walked along the path bordering the lake in the late afternoon light, we encountered many groups of walkers speaking a variety of languages all heading into town and their bed for the night, I am sure.

   
Well behaved dogs were out for a walk, some of them frolicking in the water and retrieving sticks thrown by their owners. Birds in the trees, ducks on the lake and sheep in the bordering fields all added to the happy end of the day feeling.




Soon we were tired of the scene and thinking of our stomachs as we had not really had a lunch time stop.
So we headed back into town and after stopping to look in a cute Beatrix Potter memorabilia shop, we stumbled onto a pub which catered to dogs and their owners. It was packed ... with humans and well  their dogs sitting mostly under tables in a well behaved fashion. There were, of course the exceptions that proved the rule and some rather large brutes came in and had to be forcefully restrained.

The pub was not elegant or fancy but it was entertaining if a little smelly. The beer was good and the fare filling and hearty so we passed a few hours with lots to talk about.

the church in the main square of Keswick

And then we were tired so we toddled back to the main street and our narrow beds in the old hotel.

North Wales: Land of Castles

a map of Wales showing our drive from Swansea in the south to Llandudno in the north with a stop at Aberaeron

We got underway just after nine in the morning following the trusty GPS Josephine's convoluted but accurate directions to get us out of Swansea. After a few hours of driving, William asked what I had planned for a beautiful spot for a coffee stop. I took from his tone that finding an auto stop along the motorway was not going to fit the bill.

the pastel houses of Aberaeron

After a quick perusal of the map, I pulled the coastal town of Aberaeron out of thin air. And what a lucky pluck it was! William was enchanted for a number of reasons, soon to be divulged, and Robert could not stop taking pictures.  What was truly unique about this sea-side town was the buildings, both retail and residential, which were all painted pastel shades and which we surmised was a plan of the local council to attract tourists. Well it worked!!

boats in the protected harbour of Aberaeron

We wandered around braving the wild winds and waves crashing against the cement boardwalk, noting the cute hotels, and marvelling at the keystone harbour which must test the mettle of any captain who wishes to negotiate the narrow entrance from fierce ocean to calm anchorage. 

In one parking lot William found a blue vespa which he coveted, which enhanced my choice of stop, and then we found a perfect bakery cum coffee shop where his morning coffee stop moved from appreciation of a cute village to adoration of the confection he ordered to go along with his coffee.

As usual we took our coffee outdoors so that Rob could enjoy his ciggie poo. Our coffee orders were always the same: two cafe latte and one americano. It was the decadence of the accompanying treats that varied from day to day. 

the Scottish scone in the Welsh village

 In Aberaeron, William ordered a massive scone filled with whip cream and accompanied by blackberry jam and he swooned over the high caloric treat from the first mouthful to the last. In our whole trip, William never found a better treat than the Aberaeron scone, made daily, we were told by a Scottish lady in this lovely Welsh village.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

And so we moved on, further north along the coast and then through the Cambrian Mountains.

coastal view just north of Aberaeron

I had received ten out of ten for the morning coffee stop in Aberaeron. Unfortunately I wasn't so successful with my next bit of trip planning. I had read that Betwys-y-Coed was a lovely little town, at least according to Rick Steeves. We found it to be dark and depressing with its heavy grey-stoned buildings, the bridges across the river, its massive trees and its crowds of tourists wandering around. We settled for a quick drive through and continued on to our B&B in Llandudno.

 I was back on track because the B&B, Stoneleigh, with our charming hostess, Anna, more than met everyone's expectations.

Llandudno around its bay

As we walked from our lodging on a leafy street to the downtown area for dinner, Rob,as usual, was snapping pictures left, right and centre. We waited and finally got to our seafood restaurant where we had a very nice meal.

 Rob excused himself at the end to have his cigarette, we assumed, while we had dessert. About fifteen minuted later when we were leaving, Rob was nowhere to be found. We thought, "Oh well, he is a big boy. He has either found a pub or he has gone back by himself."

Rob, the wanderer

About 45 minuted later when I was tucked in bed but not asleep, Rob knocked on my door. It seems he was having a beer at an outside table at a pub two doors from the restaurant. We didn't see him and he didn't see us. But Rob didn't know where we were staying or how to get back to the B&B.  Just how did he manage it? Well he called up the pictures he had made on his camera and walked his way back to our lodging one frame at a time. Now that was enterprising and deserved a glass of scotch which is just what the two of us had. Cheers to the problem solving man!

We reviewed the story over a breakfast of porridge for Billy boy and smoked salmon and eggs for the problem solving wandering brother, Rob and fruit and yogurt for myself, the self-appointed tour director. Then we were off on our next adventure: a walk in the rain along the sea-shore to the more famous tourist town of Conwy.

Conwy Castle

the impressive sands from Llandudno to Conwy

It was a long stretch of the legs to reach the town and its dominant castle. It did not disappoint us as a day-trip destination but we were glad that we had not stayed there.

A local bus brought us speedily back to Llandudno after lunch. The last part of the day's outing was to ride the cog railway up to the top of the headland where we tried to admire the views despite the cold temperatures. Halfway up to the top is an excavation of a very old mining site which would have made for an interesting stop if it had been earlier in the day and we hadn't been so tired and so cold.

Three on a walk in Llandudno

Back at the B&B we shared our impressions of the day over a glass or two before we headed out for dinner and then toddled off to bed.
All things considered, Llandudno had been a worthwhile stop and we felt heartily refreshed and replenished as well as more than a little bit pampered before the next leg of driving began.

Swansea - Land of our Fathers ( well our mother actually)

a map of the Gower peninsula showing Swansea and Mumbles Head

It was a mere two hours on the motorways to reach Swansea where Robert and I were born. Because we arrived just after twelve noon, we felt it was too early on a Sunday to present ourselves at the Tides Guesthouse looking for our rooms. 

town of Mumbles seen from Oystermouth Castle

Instead we parked the car and walked in to the village of Mumbles. It was a short jaunt down the promenade along the water before we cut back into the village. Not much has changed here since we were kids. We found Joe's ice cream and that is what William had for lunch. They still make it the same way with a touch of evapourated milk and it tastes like no other. They also make the ice cream sandwich (my favourite as a kid), with the same little metal mold I remember. Hold the handle with the rectangular mold on top, put in the first wafer, add the ice cream, scrape it off the top so it is flat and put the other wafer on the top. Tip it over onto greaseproof paper and serve it to the customer. Voila! A yummy lunch!!

The lighthouse of Mumbles Head

We continued our journey along the water-side walk to the pier which unfortunately has the worst of rides and slot machines for family entertainment. That wasn't there when we were kids.  But we could still see the lighthouse on the rocky cliffs of Mumbles Head, a place that has featured heavily in the stories of our family. My mother recited poetry in Welsh competitions, 'eisteddfods' when she was a young girl and we were treated to her talent in this area throughout our lives. The one that we all loved best was the epic saga called "The Women of Mumbles Head" which my mother could recite perfectly well into her upper eighties.

the stone window of the second floor chapel in Oystermouth Castle

We rounded out our afternoon of walking with a jaunt up the hill to Oystermouth Castle. In the past few years they have renovated the castle from a ruin to a lovely cared for space set in a huge expanse of lawn. It is quite the loveliest castle I have seen in a long time and they have a little visitors room where they show several different videos of the castle and its history. It was a charming surprise. 

I do some crazy things based on my brothers' suggestions

    

I am having a wonderful time with my brothers who laugh and sing and break into poetry throughout the day. Any time we are serious it is to tell a story from our childhood. It is a very special time that probably doesn't come to many siblings when they are adults.  

Mum at fifty

After a lovely afternoon, the other little surprise was that because it was Sunday and most people go out for a big lunch, the only restaurant open within walking distance was a Turkish restaurant. It was, again, surprisingly good!


We have come to Swansea specifically to have a memorial service for our late mother. On Monday, our cousin, Dafydd, a minister, officiated at a touching service in cousin Mary's church. It was attended by about fifty people. Most of them were our cousins and family but one of my mother's sisters, Joan, was there.  Some church members and others, who were distant relatives,  had seen the announcement in the local paper and rounded out the numbers. My brothers and I were thrilled. Besides all the stories we heard, the unknown family members we met and the graciousness of the ladies who catered the tea afterwards, what will remain with me is the singing. Dafydd had us practice the two hymns he had included in the service and invited us to sing them in either Welsh or English. I didn't see how this could work but I was amazed as the fifty strong "welsh choir", that would be all us ordinary folks, raised our voices and produced a truly incredible sound. 

The Jones family

Afterwards,our immediate family, adjourned to the Tides B&B where our hostess, Mary, provided us with a delicious supper in her charming breakfast room.  Not all the family living in Swansea could make it to the service and supper but the ones who could all had a good time reminiscing, telling stories from our childhood, showing family pictures, and meeting the newer generation of "Joneses". This was a manageable number as my cousin told us all that our grandmother and grandfather had 176 descendents to date and, as the eldest grandchild, I am one of the few that have grandchildren. That number will grow by leaps and bounds in the next few years.

these children are all in the family picture above

During the course of the next day we spread Mum's ashes at two family grave- sites and then in the sea at Mumbles Head. It was a challenging time emotionally but one which was helped by our cousin, Mary, who accompanied us and by Auntie Joan, Mum's youngest sister. Our choice of places to spread the ashes came from places that were dear to our mother.

the three of us at great grandmother, Rachel's, grave

First came Mynedd Bach cemetery where our great grandmother, Rachel, is buried. Unfortunately the cemetery has not been kept up and we had to wade through thigh-high grass and cut back brambles to reach her tombstone. Luckily, Mary knew where it was. Our mother is named after our great-grandmother and the family story is that, at the tender age of 27 , she was struck by lightning on her front doorstep. She died a few days later of complications from the pneumonia that ensued, leaving behind five children. My grandfather, who was five at the time, missed his mother terribly for his entire life and never quite took to the "new mother" my great-grandfather subsequently married. It was this branch of the "new family" that allowed us to meet hitherto unknown relatives at our mother's memorial service. My mother was named Rachel after her grandmother and one of the comments she treasured most was one of my grandfather 's. He said, " I named you after the right one, Rachel, bach!"

Catherine reads poetry while William does the honours

 
After we cleared away the plant growth we realized what a beautiful grave and marker our great-grandmother had, courtesy of her quite wealthy father. We read a few of Mum's favourite poems as we scattered her ashes on the grave of the Rachel who had died far too young. 





After lunch we picked up Auntie Joan and made our way to our grandmother and grandfather's grave - our Mamgu and Dadcu,  as they say in Wales. This required a little surreptitious sprinkling as the grave is in a well-kept and well-used cemetery. Again we read a poem but thankfully this time, the emotion of Mynedd Bach  did not rise up and choke us.

in front of our Mamgu and Dadcu's grave

And then we went to the original Joe's Ice-Cream Parlour,  to have a traditional ice cream: the nutty cone for Rob and Auntie Joan and Mary and the ice cream sandwich for William and me.  Because this is how the Jones family celebrates special occasions --- we eat!
After we delivered our relatives back home it was time for our last and most important stop to say good-bye to Mum.

Before we did, we visited our childhood home: the house where I was born. The street looks much the same but the back gardens are very different. Gone is my grandfather's green-house with all those tomatoes strung high to the ceiling and smelling so wonderful.

51 Bryn Street: where I was born

We thought we would visit my grandfather's pub The Dilwyn Arms  and have a little drink before we drove down to the Mumbles. Although it looks just the same on the outside as it always did, it was a very depressing place and quite empty. We had a brief chat with the waitress but couldn't bare to remember beloved family members there.

We drove down the coast to Mumbles Head, just past the village of Mumbles where we were staying.  Apparently, our mother was very good at elocution in her youth, winning cash prizes frequently in the various Eisteddfod festivals. As children, we were often treated to her poems but the one that was always our favourite was "The Women of Mumbles Head" - an epic tale of a ship that went down in a gale off the rocky promontory that is known as Mumbles Head. We wanted to honour her love of poetry and this poem in particular by leaving a little of Mum in the sea at Mumbles. It was a bit of a treacherous trip down the cliff as the waves crashed against the rocks and I let my two brothers make the final descent to the water's edge with our mother's ashes.

 Mumbles Head: a final resting place in the sea for our mother

When they made their way back up to where I was sitting, we sat quietly for quite a while as the sun was making its steady way toward the horizon. There was nothing but the howling wind and the pounding waves and then Robert recited the poem one last time.





"Bring novelists your notebook
 

 Bring dramatists your pen

 

And I'll tell you a simple story of what women did for men....."

And so we leave our roots, our birth home and the memories of many family stories told to us over the years by our beloved mother, Rachel Jones Turner.

the Welsh flag flies atop Oystermouth castle