{Prompt: Write a story about your summer in England}
It was in May of 1986, shortly after my graduation from NC State University, that I went to a small city in northern England, to spend the summer on a student work exchange.
Ripon
The city was called Ripon. It was in North Yorkshire, and they were proud of the fact that it was the “Smallest City in England”, where city status is determined by royal charter.
Whether they were really and truly the smallest city is a matter of debate. I have found out now — with the help of the internet and artificial intelligence — that Ripon is only the second smallest city, behind Wells, in Somerset County. (Which of these two cities was smallest forty years ago can only be determined with certainty by accessing the census records.)
So who has the better claim to being the smallest city? It doesn’t really matter. I’m here to tell you that in the hearts and minds of the people of Ripon, they are the smallest. And damn proud of it.
If you go to Wikipedia, and look up Ripon, you can learn a bit about its history: how it was founded in the kingdom of Northumbria, how a monastery was built there in the time of Eata of Hexham, and how a young Saint Cuthbert once roamed its halls.
There’s a bunch of fiddle-faddle about how a timber church was replaced by a stone-built church, and it eventually grew to become the Ripon Cathedral, sitting above the banks of the River Skell.
Aerial view (the best view), of Ripon Cathedral.
And Ripon has streets with charming names, like Kirkgate and Skellgate — Blossomgate and Allhallowgate. A charming city market lies between Queen Street and Fishergate. They also have a Prison & Police museum and a Workhouse museum.
They have two public houses (pubs) with decades—if not centuries—of character — The Black Swan and The Royal Oak. The Royal Oak is where the tourists go. The Black Swan is for the rabble.
A picturesque corner of the city market.
But for all of its charm, Ripon’s main attraction is its proximity to the National Trust properties of Studley Royal Park and the ruins of Fountains Abbey. They have been designated UNESCO World Heritage sites… and they are stunning.
The abbey was in operation for over 400 years — from the year 1132 when it was established, to the year 1539 when its dissolution was ordered by King Henry VIII.
Fountains Abbey (Credit: Andrew Locking-AndrewsWalks.co.uk)
I didn’t really know anything about King Henry VIII — much less the “Dissolution of the Monasteries” or the “Act of Supremacy” — when I went there in 1986.
I went to Ripon to work at another nearby attraction, the Lightwater Valley (LWV) family amusement park.
There was no danger of Lightwater Valley attracting lovers of English architecture, culture, or history. LWV was there to provide amusement, primarily to preteen tykes.
Lightwater Valley park map (1987 version)
Lightwater Valley Amusement Park
The Lightwater Valley family amusement park, at that time had only one automated ride — The Devil’s Cascade — and no roller coasters whatsoever. It was nothing like Busch Gardens or Carowinds, which were already bristling with roller coasters in the 1980s.
To me it was more like Pullen Park, in Raleigh, with a children’s train ride and a carousel. So, when I arrived, I was feeling a bit misled by its designation as an “amusement” park, which I assumed would have thrill rides.
But after a week or two, I began to appreciate the sort of amusement that Lightwater Valley provided, even with the absence of those marvels of engineering.
Lightwater Valley— a pretty relaxed place to be in 1986.
My job was relatively simple. I had to wear red overalls with the park logo, go to a particular ride, give a short set of instructions, and make sure no one got hurt.
There was one ride — a giant slide with a completely vertical drop, about 30 feet high—which only the bravest of the tiny tots would attempt. Quite a few of the kids went to the top (just like a high dive platform), looked down at the precipitous drop, and turned around.
The ones that could be persuaded to attempt the slide, usually climbed up over the edge facing backwards, holding onto the lip of the slide with their hands — bellies rubbing the surface — and slid down safely when their grip on the edge finally loosened.
A brave child on the giant slide (view from the top).
The park workers (including myself), who went down the slide several times a day at breaktime, would learn to go off the slide, standing above it and facing forward, taking a 6 inch step out into thin air, and then letting gravity take effect. It was pretty thrilling. Aside from an occasional friction burn, no one ever got hurt.
Not as scary from this angle. (Note: worker seated—top left)
There was an archery range, which was far more dangerous. Mind you, no one ever got shot with an arrow, because no one was ever allowed out on the range until every arrow had been launched.
But the real danger was when the kids were preparing to shoot. That was a nightmare. Kids would put the arrow on the “arrow rest” — the notch in the bow above the grip, and then about half the time the arrow would come off the rest when they pulled the string back, sometimes pointing toward the ground, sometimes pointing off to the side. There were many, many times when I would stop a child and reposition the arrow, before it was released, to go flipping off in any direction.
When the arrow wasn’t falling off the notch of the bow, it was often being held there with the index finger of the bow hand, a potentially catastrophic situation: If the string was released when the arrow was held against the bow, the arrow would either stay where it was or, more dangerously, slide right through the curve of the index finger with enough velocity to cause real harm.
I heard a horror story once of a kid that had to see the park’s doctor on staff, because a piece of a broken arrow had pierced right through his finger. He had to be taken to an emergency room miles away to have the splintered piece of wood removed.
Of course most of the time, the injuries were much less traumatic. Often, kids would pull back the bowstring, and it would come away from the “nock” of the arrow, effectively disconnecting the arrow from the string. When released, the bowstring would go whapping against the inside of their forearm. The arrow would go nowhere. Instead, they would get a nasty little slap on their arm.
Now… years later… whenever I see a kid with a bow and arrow, even if its a Nerf archery set, I kind of go into a Lightwater Valley rendition of Archery 101 (whether they want it or not) — describing the proper stance, proper grip, and proper technique. How to nock the rear of the arrow onto the bowstring. How to set the business end of the arrow on the arrow rest.
I have them hold the bow, bowstring, and arrow in place until everything is safe and sound — the left index finger safely away from the arrow’s shaft, the left arm slightly flexed, and all aimed in an unpopulated direction. Only then are they allowed to give the arrow its flight.
A cute aspiring archer - totally out of her depth.
Lightwater Valley had not one… not two… but three different race tracks. They had a downhill track for “Skate Karts,” a BMX bicycle track, and a mini-motorcycle track.
The skate karts had wheels like a skateboard, but were big enough to hold someone sitting down, steering with their feet. The only hard part of the job at this station was choosing the right size of the “kart” for the customer. Yellow karts for the smallest, blue karts for the biggest, and red karts for the kids in between. Very fun. I’ve never seen anything like it since.
The BMX racetrack was ahead of its time — a fantastic course. It looked very cool, but unfortunately all of the BMX bikes were kid-sized and too small for me, or any adult, to manage.
The BMX course at LWV.
The motorcycles were also pint-sized, but since they were essentially run by the throttle on the handlebars, we could easily take them for a spin with our lanky knees pointing out on both sides. We occasionally took them for a spin before the park officially opened or after it closed.
Yes, we really let children ride the motorcycles. At first, I was surprised too. But I think that the top-end speed was no more than 14 or 15 miles per hour. There were bouncy barriers all around the track. And they were so low to the ground that there was actually little danger of a really serious injury. We never had any trouble at this attraction, except for the little speedsters getting impatient at the start, while we laid out our safety rules. They couldn’t wait to hit the gas!
A real image of the mini motorcycle attraction.
There were many other attractions, kiosks, and services. There was an impressively sized playground in the shape and style of a frontier fort. There was a miniature choo-choo train. There were paddle boats and canoes.
The ‘Western’ fort play area.
There were many rides that I never really worked on, but there were lots of young folks, like me, in bright red Lightwater Valley overalls, attending to ride safety and guest satisfaction. I met them all over the park.
Some of my coworkers.
Life in Ripon
I also met a bunch of the staff on the shuttle bus each day, picking up workers from Market Square in the morning, and taking them back to Ripon in the evening.
For the first week or so, I could barely understand what they were saying. I think they could barely understand me either. They had an especially disconcerting way of dropping the “t”s in the middle of a word, a distinctly northern English way of talking which I had never heard before, even in the movies. Instead of saying “little” or “bottle”, they would say “li’-el” or “bo’-el”, with a glottal stop.
They would also omit the “H” sound at the start of a word - saying “’ouse” instead of “house”. And they used different words entirely, quite often. “Flat” instead of “apartment”. “Boot” of a car instead of “trunk” of a car. “Loo” or “WC” instead of “bathroom.”
They would root for football clubs like Manchester, Arsenal and Chelsea. They would wear long scarves and silly hats. They felt strongly about gardens and rosebushes.
They had roundabouts and hedgerows. They had footpaths that passed through sheep paddocks, crossing stone walls with a series of steps up and down, called a stile. Nursery rhymes started making sense to me — “There was a crooked man, who went a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile…”
A stile crossing a stone wall (Credit: UIG via Getty Images)
They would watch Doctor Who and Benny Hill and The Young Ones, each more irreverent than the last. And they listened to music I had never heard before — music by The Cure, The Smiths, The Housemartins, and Echo & the Bunnymen.
Poster for The Young Ones - a British comedy
One of the other staffers at Lightwater Valley, Mark Slinger, was a bit older than I was. We might have been the oldest of the lot — both out of high school and done with college. He asked me what I liked to listen to.
At the time, I was listening to Madonna (Like a Virgin), Foreigner (I Want to Know What Love Is), Simple Minds (Don’t You Forget About Me), and Tears for Fears (Everybody Wants to Rule the World). I was listening to everything on MTV, the music from John Hughes movies, and music from all the bands that played at Live Aid the year before.
He asked me if I liked The Cure.
I said, “Who’s that?”
Next thing I know, he is making me a mix tape of all the post-punk, alternative-rock English bands that I didn’t know I was missing — an honest-to-god cassette tape with a “Side 1” and a “Side 2” to play in my Walkman radio.
I came to find out, later, that he played bass and sang vocals for two years in a local band called M. E. 109. He included two of their songs on the tape.
Mark also helped me discover that there was a whole part of English life that happened in the local pub. I once told him that I couldn’t find anywhere to go for a bite to eat in town — there was no McDonald’s, Burger King, Arby’s, or Wendy’s— seemingly no fast food to be had.
So he suggested that we go to the local pub. I didn’t realize that he meant that we should go for food. I thought he was suggesting that we go for a pint or two of beer, and I figured that would be better than nothing.
When we arrived (right around dinner time) the pub was packed with people — people eating and drinking. Families with children, all sitting together at a big booth. Individuals, sitting at the bar. Other people, bustling in between. Everyone talking to everyone else. It was like a community gathering. It was unlike any bar or restaurant I had ever been to in the states.
The Black Swan, in Ripon.
Later I discovered that there was a fish and chips kiosk on one of the street corners, and a kebab kiosk on another street corner. I had never had real fish-and-chips. I had only ever had flounder or catfish, and maybe once or twice I’d had trout at a fancy restaurant. I didn’t realize that fish could be cheap and still good — light and fluffy, rather than thin and leathery.
And I didn’t know how to flavor the fish-and-chips until the vendor did it for me, adding lemon and vinegar all over the place – even on the chips – and wrapping it up in newsprint.
It was pretty good, but when I had my first “kebab” in England… words can’t describe the delicious taste that I experienced. I thought, “What is this delectable treat?” and “Why has no one ever mentioned this before?” It was a revelation. From then on, I made many trips down Kirkgate road to have a Shawarma kebab.
I was living in a flat in town, provided to me free of charge, through the father of a close friend.
When I arrived, there was a very brief orientation, but I must have missed the part that told me how to get the hot water working. I didn’t know anything about lighting the pilot light on a hot water heater, and I was too young and embarrassed to ask the owner for help.
Consequently, I had to take a shivering shower in cold water, getting just wet enough to soap up and rinse off. Then I would scurry from the shower to a nice warm (in comparison) bath towel, dry off, and jump under the bed covers for warmth. I kept taking cold showers for two or three months, until the amusement park closed for the summer, and my stay in Ripon came to an end.
Rambling
By the time I left Ripon, I had grown fond of all the quirky things that England’s smallest city had to offer. I loved the Mother Goose quality of the English countryside. I loved the glottal stop of the Yorkshire dialect. I loved riding mini-motorcycles, and sliding off of 30 foot slides at Lightwater Valley.
I loved Chelsea FC, Doctor Who, and the Smiths. I loved kebabs made at the corner of Kirkgate, or dinner and a pint at the Black Swan on Westgate. I even loved cold showers a little bit.
I loved the way the English had of turning work and drudgery into fodder for satirical comedy and camaraderie.
But I had ambition, like most Americans. I wanted to return to the States, go to medical school, and make something of myself.
When it came time to leave, I had only to make my way to an international airport to get back, but I decided to extend my stay a few weeks, and see a bit more of the country. I decided to see a bit of the Yorkshire Dales, the Lake District, Edinburgh, London, and Paris before flying out of Amsterdam.
So I packed my meager belongings into a backpack, locked the door to my flat and headed west out of the smallest city in England.
First, I passed by Fountains Abbey and the Studley Royal water gardens that I had seen once before.
The ruins of Fountains Abbey.
I walked across the Yorkshire Dales towards Kilnsey and the Tennants Arms Hotel, where a rocky crag juts out above the road.
The Tennants Arm Hotel in the Yorkshire Dales.
I walked cautiously down beside the waterfall at the Gordale Scar, dangerously top-heavy from a fully stuffed backpack.
Gordale Scar.
I walked past Malham Cove, a unique limestone formation — surprisingly beautiful.
Malham Cove.
I hitch-hiked to Windermere and Grasmere, the homes of Beatrix Potter and William Wordsworth, in the Lake District.
English countryside.
From there, I hiked past Angle Tarn to the cloud covered peak of Great Gable, where I searched for the footpath that would take me north.
A valley in the Lake District.
I hiked down the ridge of Maiden Moor towards Derwentwater and Keswick.
Derwentwater.
And then I hitch-hiked again, riding with a salesman, up to Edinburgh, Scotland. I walked the Royal Mile, from Edinburgh Castle to the gates of the Queen’s Royal Palace.
Queen’s Royal Palace gates.
I went to London, where I saw Buckingham Palace, Madame Tussaud’s, London Tower, and the buskers in Covent Garden for the very first time.
Covent Garden.
I took the hovercraft from England to France.
The English hovercraft.
And I went to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower.
View from the Eiffel Tower.
…the Bois de Boulogne,
Bois de Boulogne
…the Pompidou Centre,
The Pompidou Center.
…and cafés, all over the city.
La Grande Cascade
I had delicious saucy French food prepared by fellow travelers at the Auberge de Jeunesse. And then I left for the airport at Amsterdam, where I slept in the terminal before my morning flight. I saw very little of the Netherlands.
Mark’s Mix Tape
I returned to an ordinary job in Raleigh, working in the deli department of a neighborhood grocery store, waiting to see if I could get in to medical school.
I made it onto the waiting list for three medical schools— Duke, Emory, and the University of Virginia.
Then, I took a better job with Raleigh Parks and Recreation as a pool manager.
And just about when I had given up hope of going to medical school at all, I received a letter of acceptance to Duke Medical School.
Every now and then, I would pull out a cassette tape from England — the one that I carried with me through the Yorkshire Dales, the Lake District, and half of western Europe. I would play Side 1… pull it out and flip it over… and play Side 2.
I did that off and on until the names of the songs and the artists, written with a blue ball-point pen, began to fade. So I rewrote the names with a gel pen, over the original printing, as best as I could make them out.
CDs came into vogue, and my CD collection began to swell. My favorite cassette tapes were relegated to a vinyl case in a corner of the closet.
Still… every now and then I could play the Mark’s mix tape in my old car stereo system, the one with both a CD player and a cassette tape player.
Eventually they didn’t sell cars with tape players anymore. It even became harder to find cars that could play CDs. WAV files and MP3 files became popular with the advent of smartphones and email.
Only with a special effort could I find a functioning tape player — a relic from the 80s — and put in my original mix tape from Ripon, North Yorkshire.
Then I heard about something called a “playlist”. There was a movie called “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist” in 2008, where a digital lineup of songs (burnt onto a CD) was the central focus. It sounded a lot like a mix tape.
And in 2012, in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”, Charlie’s mix-tape (and his music) is front and center, reminding me of the music of the 80s, and the weird melancholy beauty of alternative rock — reminding me of my own unique mix tape.
My keepsake mix tape was in danger of becoming unplayable, and all mix tapes were in danger of becoming obsolete. But digital playlists were having a moment in the cultural zeitgeist; it seemed like it was time to join the party.
I decided to convert Mark’s mix tape to a digital format. My love for English alternative rock was fully confirmed. I created a playlist where the music is pretty much intact, except for the long pause between Side 1 and Side 2. It lives in my iPhone.
Whenever I play it, I remember the summer I spent in England’s smallest town, at the hokiest amusement park I had ever seen, learning to love English culture.
A contented Lightwater Valley worker, on a break.
Side 1:
Happy Hour - The Housemartins
We’re Not Deep - The Housemartins
Boys Don’t Cry - The Cure
The Lovecats - The Cure
Panic - The Smiths
Bigmouth Strikes Again - The Smiths
The Killing Moon - Echo & The Bunnymen
Rain - The Cult
Warrior - M. E. 109
Lessons in Love - Level 42
Side 2:
Sheep - The Housemartins
Over There - The Housemartins
In Between Days - The Cure
What Difference Does It Make? - The Smiths
Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now - The Smiths
Seven Seas - Echo & The Bunnymen
Bring on the Dancing Horses - Echo & The Bunnymen
Brand New Friend - Lloyd Cole & The Commotions
Lost Weekend - Lloyd Cole & The Commotions
Calling All the Heroes - It Bites
Falling in Love with a Robot (Mr 1984) - M. E. 109
Throwing My Baby Out with the Bathwater - Tenpole Tudor
Memories - Elvis Presley.
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