- Joined
- Dec 2, 2005
- Messages
- 69,576
Round Yorkshire With A Knife: The Wizards Quest Part 5 Nowt in North Yorkshire
Background: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-to-Jack-Black
Previous instalments -
Part 1: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Knaresborough
Part 2: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-2
Part 3: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-3
Part 4: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-4
I recently read a claim that Harrogate was the antiques capital of the North (of England), and despite my scepticism and previously stated indifference to this posh North Yorkshire spa-town, I thought it might be worth a visit. As were still in the middle of a particularly wet winter here in England, there have been lean times lately, the car-boot sales are closed until the spring, and fewer market traders bother to stand. So, on a wet and gloomy Saturday morning, I set out with a sandwich and a flask of coffee, in pursuit of the Wizards Quest.
I sat atop the 36 bus, heading north out of Leeds, ensconced in deep leather upholstery, with fine views to Eccup Reservoir and the Harewood Estate and village (first mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086) despite the falling drizzle. As the bus snaked around the ancient stone boundary wall of Harewood, close to the castle, abandoned for 400 years, I couid see 20 or 30 head of deer in the fields of the stately home. We crossed the narrow bridge across the roaring River Wharfe, and soon after, entered North Yorkshire. Not far ahead lay my first port of call, an antiques centre close to the small village of Pannal.
I stepped from the bus into fine rain blown by a sharp wind, keeping my head up just long enough to admire the impressive railway viaduct in the distance, a spectacular engineering achievement of a bygone age. Down a small track lay a large antiques emporium, and I made my way inside as quickly as possible.
It wasnt long before I spotted some slipjoints in a display cabinet, they included numerous rather worn old Sheffield folders and a contemporary IXL Barlow, as well as a couple of Swiss army knives. All varied in price from very expensive to outrageous.
In another cabinet opposite there were some more small folders; a few Richards knives, a penknife tagged as a Wostenholm, and a Jack knife which had nicely jigged bone covers and fluted bolsters. I asked an assistant if I might have a look at the knives and he went to get the key, then unlocked the cabinet and let me pick out the knives that interested me. The Wostenholm was nothing special at all, and both blades had considerable play, it certainly wasnt worth anything like the price being asked. I picked up the Jack, the jigging really was very nicely done, but I could see straight away that the main blade was worn away to almost nothing, and the pen had lost its tip. Again, it was overpriced. I looked at another couple of small folders, which like the previous knife, carried no makers mark, and were quite uninteresting. Thanking the assistant, I moved on.
The next unit contained furniture, which didnt interest me, but the next one along had glass cabinets with shelves packed with small collectibles, common WW1 Medals, old badges and buttons, a few corkscrews, some contemporary bits of tat, and quite a lot of junk in general. In among the clutter were a couple of badly worn clasp knives, not worth the prices being asked, and one of those Bambis Paw tourist knives in a plastic sheath.
A back-room full of jumble had plenty of interesting items, but only one knife, a large unmarked Bowie, with an unwarranted hefty price-tag.
I looked round the rest of the place, and there were certainly a few interesting items, but no more knives, and everything was very pricey. Well-heeled women and Barbour-coated gents brayed and hawed over the vintage merchandise. Sometimes in North Yorkshire its hard to believe youre either in the north or in Yorkshire, its certainly a long way from Barnsley or Rotherham.
I left empty-handed, a little disheartened at having to leave the few knives Id seen behind. In truth, there was nothing of real interest, but it irked nonetheless.
At the top of the drive, I was fortunate enough to arrive at the bus-stop just as the Harrogate bus came down the hill, and I hailed it and boarded. Ten minutes later, the swanky villas and vistas of central Harrogate hove into view through the still-falling drizzle. I left the bus just outside the famous Bettys Tea Rooms, which are vastly overrated in my opinion, but then I guess anyone daft enough to pay £20 for a pot of tea and a cucumber sandwich deserves to be taken for a mug (since when did cucumber make a good sandwich anyway?!).
I descended the hill into Harrogates Montpellier Quarter, which has more character than the rest of the town, and some pubs, which central Harrogate seems to be otherwise devoid of. At the foot of the hill, I turned right down a lane studded with independent shops. On the left was an antique shop, but I could see from the outside that what it sold was jewellery and old pocket watches, the prices in the window took my breath away.
Shortly after was the entrance to the antiques centre which had originally caused my interest in visiting Harrogate, and I ascended steep stairs to enter an upper hallway lined with separate vintage concerns. The first unit on the left was very cluttered with piles of clothing and a few display cabinets so crammed that it was hard to make out the individual items within, it looked like someone used it for storage. I doubted it held anything of interest to me, but this was a moot point since it was closed in any case. A doorway led off opposite into a nicely arranged room with ornate glass cabinets containing neatly displayed antiques. There were many interesting items, but apart from some flatware, there were only a couple of knives; both MOP-handled silver-bladed fruit knives, fairly priced, but not of great interest to me. I passed through the room, past vintage tea-services and more flatware. I spotted pickle forks and old spy-glasses, and lots of high-end collectibles, but no pocket knives. I descended a staircase and emerged into a street round the corner from where Id entered, close to the Royal Pump House Museum.
Down a cobbled street at the side of the small museum is Harrogates oldest pub, Hales Bar, which Id visited for the first time just the other day. As Id posted about the pub in Carls Lounge, and been asked a question about it, I thought I should go and investigate further, and despite the early hour of just fifteen minutes after noon, I slipped in for a quick drink. The old coaching house dates back to the 17th century, and the main bar was built following a fire in 1806. It retains many of the original features, including gas-lit chandeliers and cigar-lighters on the bar. The other bar lacks the character of the saloon bar and looked to me as if it had been renovated in the 1970s, when many historic pubs had their interiors ruined.
I ordered a pint and struck up conversation with a bar-maid, who could not have been more helpful or friendly, pointing out many of the bars original features, and then coming to sit with me to explain more about the pubs history in a husky Eastern European accent. I asked her about the bar next door and when it was renovated, supposing it was done in the 70s. She told me it had actually been done last year!
Across the way, a couple of academics, one American, discussed the English school examination system at length, while a couple in the next alcove chatted more quietly. You can keep your Bettys Harrogate I thought, I could have sat in this pub all day. But, the Wizards Quest called, and I wanted to head on to the market-town of Ripon, still many miles away.
Bidding farewell to the friendly bar-staff, and promising to call again, I slipped out the door and walked past the vast Royal Bath House, which at one time was the spa towns central attraction, in the direction of the bus-station. I was lucky again, and within five minutes, I was aboard the Ripon-bound bus.
On the way to Harrogate lies Ripley Castle and the old village of Ripley, owned by the Ingilby family since the 13th century, and largely torn-down and re-built in the manner of a French model village, by the mad Sir William Amcotts Ingilby, in the early 19th century (more on Ingilby family history here: http://ingilbyhistory.ripleycastle.co.uk/700years.html). The ancient church walls still bear the scars from executions during the English civil war, when Cromwells men lined Royalists up and shot them. Sadly, I seem to have lost the photos I took on my last visit to this attractive but parochial little place, but Im sure there are plenty available on the net.
Ripon Cathedral is vast, and can be seen from miles away across the relatively flat countryside, a symbol of Ripons much grander days. Though it only became a cathedral in 1836 (being formerly a minster), the cathedrals history goes back to 672, with the original Saxon crypt surviving. Most of the current building dates back to the 12th century, though some of it was added a couple of hundred years later.
The old town itself is attractively laid out around an ancient market square, which as it was market day, Id hoped to find filled with slipjoint-packed stalls. I dont know if there had been more stalls earlier, but by the time I arrived around 1.30pm, Ripon market consisted of one solitary stall - and it didnt sell pocketknives!
Close to the market square, Id previously visited a large emporium containing about twenty independent businesses, one of which stocked vintage collectibles and the odd pocket-knife. I entered the building to find that only half a dozen businesses remained, with the stall I was interested in long gone.
I briefly checked out half a dozen charity shops, but as I had expected, there was nothing to be had there. An old independent hardware shop advertised shooting and fishing supplies, and I entered to explore, only to find nothing but a small display case containing a medium-sized Opinel, two Vic Classics, and a couple of cheap and nasty modern folders.
The attractively-fronted town hall contains a tourist information office and I entered. Ten minutes later, I was still listening to the solitary member of staff loudly conversing with a friend on the phone, so I decided to go for lunch and a pint at The Unicorn Hotel, one of Ripons oldest pubs, before heading to the Cathedral Quarter.
After my meal, I walked along winding cobbled streets, empty of people, fronted largely by failed businesses and closed shops, before the front of the enormous cathedral once more came into view. After snapping the obligatory photograph, I walked along the banks of the River Ure to an antiques shop I had spotted as the bus drove into town.
I opened the door to the place and stepped inside, noticing immediately that it was absolutely packed with furniture. Inside a glass-fronted bureau was a large collection of table lighters arranged in neat rows. I had been browsing around the shop for a minute or so before I noticed the proprietor, sat quietly reading a newspaper behind a large display cabinet piled high with various bygone odds and ends. We exchanged greetings, and he asked if I was looking for anything in particular. Not beating about the bush, I told him, Pocket knives. I was disappointed to hear him say that he didnt have any at all. There was nothing else of interest to me in the shop, but out of politeness, I spent a few minutes browsing anyway, before I asked the gentleman if he ever had any pocket knives in at all. He said that he saw them only rarely these days and we began a long conversation about why and what a shame that was. I was reminded that charity shops, the ubiquitous feature of every British high street, to whom people donate their unwanted treasures, and those of their deceased loved-ones, throw any pocket knives they find in the bin or otherwise have them destroyed, so gradually depleting the number of old knives available. We went on to chat about various knife-related issues before I noticed I had been standing next to a large mounted Bowie knife, a big ugly ridiculous-looking Franklin Mint thing, which we both laughed about. Definitely not a Quest knife!
Some nice scenery in North Yorkshire, some quaint places and some friendly folk, but nothing worth buying knife-wise it seems, not today at any rate.
Atop the Leeds-bound bus, I set off on the long journey home, with only the knives I had set out with in my pockets, and only a small bottle of 18-year old Glenfiddich and a few luxury rum-soaked chocolates, left over from Christmas, to console me
The Hunt Continues!
Jack
Background: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-to-Jack-Black
Previous instalments -
Part 1: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...-Knaresborough
Part 2: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/sh...s-Quest-Part-2
Part 3: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-3
Part 4: http://www.bladeforums.com/forums/s...kshire-With-A-Knife-The-Wizard’s-Quest-Part-4
I recently read a claim that Harrogate was the antiques capital of the North (of England), and despite my scepticism and previously stated indifference to this posh North Yorkshire spa-town, I thought it might be worth a visit. As were still in the middle of a particularly wet winter here in England, there have been lean times lately, the car-boot sales are closed until the spring, and fewer market traders bother to stand. So, on a wet and gloomy Saturday morning, I set out with a sandwich and a flask of coffee, in pursuit of the Wizards Quest.
I sat atop the 36 bus, heading north out of Leeds, ensconced in deep leather upholstery, with fine views to Eccup Reservoir and the Harewood Estate and village (first mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086) despite the falling drizzle. As the bus snaked around the ancient stone boundary wall of Harewood, close to the castle, abandoned for 400 years, I couid see 20 or 30 head of deer in the fields of the stately home. We crossed the narrow bridge across the roaring River Wharfe, and soon after, entered North Yorkshire. Not far ahead lay my first port of call, an antiques centre close to the small village of Pannal.
I stepped from the bus into fine rain blown by a sharp wind, keeping my head up just long enough to admire the impressive railway viaduct in the distance, a spectacular engineering achievement of a bygone age. Down a small track lay a large antiques emporium, and I made my way inside as quickly as possible.
It wasnt long before I spotted some slipjoints in a display cabinet, they included numerous rather worn old Sheffield folders and a contemporary IXL Barlow, as well as a couple of Swiss army knives. All varied in price from very expensive to outrageous.
In another cabinet opposite there were some more small folders; a few Richards knives, a penknife tagged as a Wostenholm, and a Jack knife which had nicely jigged bone covers and fluted bolsters. I asked an assistant if I might have a look at the knives and he went to get the key, then unlocked the cabinet and let me pick out the knives that interested me. The Wostenholm was nothing special at all, and both blades had considerable play, it certainly wasnt worth anything like the price being asked. I picked up the Jack, the jigging really was very nicely done, but I could see straight away that the main blade was worn away to almost nothing, and the pen had lost its tip. Again, it was overpriced. I looked at another couple of small folders, which like the previous knife, carried no makers mark, and were quite uninteresting. Thanking the assistant, I moved on.
The next unit contained furniture, which didnt interest me, but the next one along had glass cabinets with shelves packed with small collectibles, common WW1 Medals, old badges and buttons, a few corkscrews, some contemporary bits of tat, and quite a lot of junk in general. In among the clutter were a couple of badly worn clasp knives, not worth the prices being asked, and one of those Bambis Paw tourist knives in a plastic sheath.
A back-room full of jumble had plenty of interesting items, but only one knife, a large unmarked Bowie, with an unwarranted hefty price-tag.
I looked round the rest of the place, and there were certainly a few interesting items, but no more knives, and everything was very pricey. Well-heeled women and Barbour-coated gents brayed and hawed over the vintage merchandise. Sometimes in North Yorkshire its hard to believe youre either in the north or in Yorkshire, its certainly a long way from Barnsley or Rotherham.
I left empty-handed, a little disheartened at having to leave the few knives Id seen behind. In truth, there was nothing of real interest, but it irked nonetheless.
At the top of the drive, I was fortunate enough to arrive at the bus-stop just as the Harrogate bus came down the hill, and I hailed it and boarded. Ten minutes later, the swanky villas and vistas of central Harrogate hove into view through the still-falling drizzle. I left the bus just outside the famous Bettys Tea Rooms, which are vastly overrated in my opinion, but then I guess anyone daft enough to pay £20 for a pot of tea and a cucumber sandwich deserves to be taken for a mug (since when did cucumber make a good sandwich anyway?!).
I descended the hill into Harrogates Montpellier Quarter, which has more character than the rest of the town, and some pubs, which central Harrogate seems to be otherwise devoid of. At the foot of the hill, I turned right down a lane studded with independent shops. On the left was an antique shop, but I could see from the outside that what it sold was jewellery and old pocket watches, the prices in the window took my breath away.
Shortly after was the entrance to the antiques centre which had originally caused my interest in visiting Harrogate, and I ascended steep stairs to enter an upper hallway lined with separate vintage concerns. The first unit on the left was very cluttered with piles of clothing and a few display cabinets so crammed that it was hard to make out the individual items within, it looked like someone used it for storage. I doubted it held anything of interest to me, but this was a moot point since it was closed in any case. A doorway led off opposite into a nicely arranged room with ornate glass cabinets containing neatly displayed antiques. There were many interesting items, but apart from some flatware, there were only a couple of knives; both MOP-handled silver-bladed fruit knives, fairly priced, but not of great interest to me. I passed through the room, past vintage tea-services and more flatware. I spotted pickle forks and old spy-glasses, and lots of high-end collectibles, but no pocket knives. I descended a staircase and emerged into a street round the corner from where Id entered, close to the Royal Pump House Museum.
Down a cobbled street at the side of the small museum is Harrogates oldest pub, Hales Bar, which Id visited for the first time just the other day. As Id posted about the pub in Carls Lounge, and been asked a question about it, I thought I should go and investigate further, and despite the early hour of just fifteen minutes after noon, I slipped in for a quick drink. The old coaching house dates back to the 17th century, and the main bar was built following a fire in 1806. It retains many of the original features, including gas-lit chandeliers and cigar-lighters on the bar. The other bar lacks the character of the saloon bar and looked to me as if it had been renovated in the 1970s, when many historic pubs had their interiors ruined.
I ordered a pint and struck up conversation with a bar-maid, who could not have been more helpful or friendly, pointing out many of the bars original features, and then coming to sit with me to explain more about the pubs history in a husky Eastern European accent. I asked her about the bar next door and when it was renovated, supposing it was done in the 70s. She told me it had actually been done last year!
Across the way, a couple of academics, one American, discussed the English school examination system at length, while a couple in the next alcove chatted more quietly. You can keep your Bettys Harrogate I thought, I could have sat in this pub all day. But, the Wizards Quest called, and I wanted to head on to the market-town of Ripon, still many miles away.
Bidding farewell to the friendly bar-staff, and promising to call again, I slipped out the door and walked past the vast Royal Bath House, which at one time was the spa towns central attraction, in the direction of the bus-station. I was lucky again, and within five minutes, I was aboard the Ripon-bound bus.
On the way to Harrogate lies Ripley Castle and the old village of Ripley, owned by the Ingilby family since the 13th century, and largely torn-down and re-built in the manner of a French model village, by the mad Sir William Amcotts Ingilby, in the early 19th century (more on Ingilby family history here: http://ingilbyhistory.ripleycastle.co.uk/700years.html). The ancient church walls still bear the scars from executions during the English civil war, when Cromwells men lined Royalists up and shot them. Sadly, I seem to have lost the photos I took on my last visit to this attractive but parochial little place, but Im sure there are plenty available on the net.
Ripon Cathedral is vast, and can be seen from miles away across the relatively flat countryside, a symbol of Ripons much grander days. Though it only became a cathedral in 1836 (being formerly a minster), the cathedrals history goes back to 672, with the original Saxon crypt surviving. Most of the current building dates back to the 12th century, though some of it was added a couple of hundred years later.
The old town itself is attractively laid out around an ancient market square, which as it was market day, Id hoped to find filled with slipjoint-packed stalls. I dont know if there had been more stalls earlier, but by the time I arrived around 1.30pm, Ripon market consisted of one solitary stall - and it didnt sell pocketknives!
Close to the market square, Id previously visited a large emporium containing about twenty independent businesses, one of which stocked vintage collectibles and the odd pocket-knife. I entered the building to find that only half a dozen businesses remained, with the stall I was interested in long gone.
I briefly checked out half a dozen charity shops, but as I had expected, there was nothing to be had there. An old independent hardware shop advertised shooting and fishing supplies, and I entered to explore, only to find nothing but a small display case containing a medium-sized Opinel, two Vic Classics, and a couple of cheap and nasty modern folders.
The attractively-fronted town hall contains a tourist information office and I entered. Ten minutes later, I was still listening to the solitary member of staff loudly conversing with a friend on the phone, so I decided to go for lunch and a pint at The Unicorn Hotel, one of Ripons oldest pubs, before heading to the Cathedral Quarter.
After my meal, I walked along winding cobbled streets, empty of people, fronted largely by failed businesses and closed shops, before the front of the enormous cathedral once more came into view. After snapping the obligatory photograph, I walked along the banks of the River Ure to an antiques shop I had spotted as the bus drove into town.
I opened the door to the place and stepped inside, noticing immediately that it was absolutely packed with furniture. Inside a glass-fronted bureau was a large collection of table lighters arranged in neat rows. I had been browsing around the shop for a minute or so before I noticed the proprietor, sat quietly reading a newspaper behind a large display cabinet piled high with various bygone odds and ends. We exchanged greetings, and he asked if I was looking for anything in particular. Not beating about the bush, I told him, Pocket knives. I was disappointed to hear him say that he didnt have any at all. There was nothing else of interest to me in the shop, but out of politeness, I spent a few minutes browsing anyway, before I asked the gentleman if he ever had any pocket knives in at all. He said that he saw them only rarely these days and we began a long conversation about why and what a shame that was. I was reminded that charity shops, the ubiquitous feature of every British high street, to whom people donate their unwanted treasures, and those of their deceased loved-ones, throw any pocket knives they find in the bin or otherwise have them destroyed, so gradually depleting the number of old knives available. We went on to chat about various knife-related issues before I noticed I had been standing next to a large mounted Bowie knife, a big ugly ridiculous-looking Franklin Mint thing, which we both laughed about. Definitely not a Quest knife!
Some nice scenery in North Yorkshire, some quaint places and some friendly folk, but nothing worth buying knife-wise it seems, not today at any rate.
Atop the Leeds-bound bus, I set off on the long journey home, with only the knives I had set out with in my pockets, and only a small bottle of 18-year old Glenfiddich and a few luxury rum-soaked chocolates, left over from Christmas, to console me
The Hunt Continues!
Jack
Last edited:
