Otley

Leeds folk in general usually have a soft spot for Otley; I suppose Otley is part of Leeds anyway today – but it wasn’t always so and there is still a bit of green belt in between, so it still seems to be a town apart even now. How many of we old Leodians cannot recall, with fondness, a glorious day out to Otley or Ilkley, commencing with a ride on one of Sammy Leggard’s blue double deckers from Cookridge Street?  My early perception of Otley and Ilkley was that they were somewhat twin towns but in fact they are quite different in character:  Otley is an out and out market town and Ilkley, which is now itself part of Bradford, more a sort of spa town (I can’t image either would have been happy at losing their independence to the big cities). However, both are located in the same direction, both share the River Wharfe and both formally sported open-air swimming baths where we would burn as children. And of course, both were reached by those grand old blue buses.

Once we had cars of our own Otley became more accessible. I recall one day managing to enter a tiny one-way street in a Bond Mini car, which having no reverse gear made it difficult for us to extract ourselves. In our years of youth, Otley provided a great pub run centred around the black Bull in the market square. A ‘half’ in every pub within walking distance would be enough to leave anyone legless.

Today, at a more sedate time of life, I try to walk, once a year, from the Royalty pub at the top of the Chevin, down into the town and back by way of ‘Jacob’s ladder’. I do this under the understanding: that if I’m still alive when I reach the top then I’m set fair for another year. On a bright Saturday morning in spring or summer Otley is at its best, there remains a fair smattering of timber constructed buildings; cafes with outside tables where folk can drink tea and lemonade alfresco. The scores of cyclists enjoying their day too can give one the impression that you have managed to travel back forty years in time from the bustle of Leeds to a less frenzied time. Unfortunately, there is still the traffic to contend with, which seems to have made a significant comeback since its depletion by the bypass. If you walk down from the Chevin – over the footbridge, and across the dismantled railway line you emerge into that which is my favourite street of terraced houses. Each has a curtain less bay window, which invites you to take quick peep at their tasteful  displays  as you pass by.

A particular favourite of mine has a cello placed in the window and a clutch of empty wine bottles, apparently carelessly placed, but surely engineered to give the impression that the folk inside had a great time last night.

Just alongside the church, where people sit on forms enjoying their sandwiches, there is chance to look again at the monument to the navvies who lost their lives helping to build Bramhope Tunnel; I think there are twenty six listed in all. Past the market stalls, which line the main street on a Saturday morning, the bric-a-brac, arcades and the wonderful smells emitting from the baker’s shops brings the market square with its free standing clock and across the busy Pool Road my favourite butcher’s shop: ‘W. Weegmann’, established 1869. No diet can be so important that you cannot have at least one pie from here. Preferably, you buy one to eat by the riverside, one to take home and several for friends. But, remember you are going to have to tote them all back up Jacob’s ladder and that includes the one inside too! The route to the river takes you past Chippendale’s house with its blue plaque, round the ninety degree bends, an absolute nightmare for the modern juggernaughts and then on to the ‘jewel in the crown’ – the bridge and the riverside gardens. A little wooden building remains, now a café, where I recall my mother buying for me a tiny yellow horse and cart. How many years ago was that?

It’s time to sit on one of the seats by the river, doesn’t seem to be any boats now but still plenty of ducks to share a bit of your crust, be careful, you can’t spare too much. Take in those beautiful riverside cottages and have a look at that elaborate sundial, I think I could just about understand it when I had a few more brain cells than now. From here, you can just see, if it’s Easter time, the cross erected on the top of the Chevin. That’s where you are going to have to climb on the way back. It looks awfully steep. Confucius, he say: ‘Even the longest journey begins with the first step’. So it’s back through the town and begin on the incline. As it becomes steeper, attempt it in bite size bites, a bit at a time. If you are prepared to take it slowly enough you can climb almost anything! When the steps appear, attempt thirty at a time, then twenty, than ten. Have a few sits, let the young ‘uns hurry past. That cross is getting nearer, are you still alive? Yes, just. Look back at the tiny Otley far below. Done it! Take in the air. Have a well-earned drink, the feel good factor kicks in, you’re alright for another year.