Monastic

We must have driven past Mount Grace Priory scores of times in the last 35 years, and I have never visited it. Every time I've suggested it, S has said no, either because we've only just set off from his mum's, or we're nearly there. So on this lovely sunny day S and I made a special trip there.

"It's only ruins you know," S said dismissively as we set off, which shows how long it is since he's been there. There is an Arts and Crafts manor house, the ruined church and monastery, and some beautiful gardens.

Our visit got off to a bad start when the English Heritage employees refused to accept my £5 note. "It's the last day they are valid today, so we can't take it." Eh? I tried to point out that as it's valid till midnight, it's still legal tender, but they weren't having it; "Boss says no." Hmph. I had to hand over a shiny new one.

We had a look at the exhibition in the house first, explaining the history of the monastery. The Carthusians are a silent order, and it described the lives of the monks in their individual cells. To me, "cell" implies a small, chilly room with a bed and maybe a chair in it, and one small window. But no -- these so-called cells were luxurious three-room residences, each with its own private garden reached via a little covered cloister. They each had a private latrine and running water from their own tap, a herb garden, a fireplace, a separate room for copying their illustrated manuscripts, a large loft for weaving and spinning, and meals via room service. OK, the downside was that they never got more than two hours' sleep because they kept having to get up to pray, and the conversational level of their neighbours left something to be desired, but these living conditions were far superior to those of 95% of the population in the Middle Ages. Here is S looking suitably monastic.

I took dozens of photos in the lovely gardens, but most of them were a bit meh. It's one of those places that are lovely to be in, but which can't be conveyed in photos. The daffodils were pretty much finished, but there were swathes of bluebells and wild garlic. The flowerbeds were full of colour and variety. On the lake a pair of Canada geese hurriedly shepherded their little brood away from us. Small album here.

Eventually we managed to tear ourselves away, and headed to Osmotherley for lunch. We chose the Golden Lion, a pub that had a very bad review from S's mum, because I'd had a quick look on Trip Advisor before we left and liked the look of it. "It's very dark," J had said. It probably is on a gloomy day, but today the sun was streaming in and lighting up the cosy interior. "And the food was horrible." It must have been an off day when she went. A chef with a hipster beard took our order and we had a lovely meal; chicken with apricot and pistachio stuffing, fondant potatoes, and thyme gravy for me, and liver and onions with mash and spinach for S. We then wisely allowed ourselves to be tempted by puddings and I had the best treacle tart I have ever tasted (not that I have had one at all in the last ten years or so) while S had a yummy looking cheesecake with cinder toffee. They must have been good because neither of us was willing to share.