Silverdale and Mrs Gaskell, using the word "moribund"

A couple of weeks ago I sent an invitation round to some people whom I though might appreciate it, about an architectural and historical walk round Silverdale. No-one took me up on it, and what a night they missed. It's a rangy village, with a shoreline, early ninetheenth century limestone houses, Italianate architecture, woods which come right into the village, and a pub which looks like a set for a Scooby Doo film.

Arriving early by train, the only person not in a car, I finished Heart of Darkness in the Silverdale Hotel, then left the Upper Congo for the secret interior of deepest Lancashire. Our guide took us to the shore and an 1830s bath house and the terrace which was added thirty years later. The glazed bay was seductive and quietly treacherous, having swallowed scores of travellers over the years, people who wanted a much quicker way to the Furness peninsula than the coast road, but who ignored local advice about the tides after a few hours in the inn.

He showed us houses grand and humble in a talk full of unGoogleable detail. "...And in fact he made a lot of money as a commercial traveller, selling lingerie. So you could say he travelled in ladies' underwear." "Don't we all?" said a probation officer. We went through woods (or "lots" as they are called locally) and did some discreet, hushed trespassing in order to see a terraced Mawson garden.

But what a finale. He led us into a fabulous private garden, in the centre of which is Lindeth Tower. "You will know Mrs Gaskell, of course," he said, and my ears pricked up, having just read Cranford and Cousin Phillis on holiday. "You might be aware that she wrote Ruth and some of Mary Barton in this tower." He read us extracts from Gaskell's diaries and letters mentioning the place. But better still: we were to go up to the top of the normally tenanted building. Three tiny rooms, one on each floor, connected by precipitious staircases, and at the top, views which I wish had quietened us. Instead, socially and culturally programmed into commenting on absolutely fucking everything, we had to say how "amazing" it was.

Back in the village, we bought the guide a couple of pints and expressed sincere thanks. But the Silverdale Hotel is a forgettable pub, and I hastened away. Up a potholed, neglected, overshadowed, and on dark nights pitch black lane, lies the Woodlands Hotel. Four real ales, all on gravity dispense; mismatched formica tables, an execrably painted portrait, and oscillating purple wallpaper; I've learnt to sit with my back to it because it starts doing a Bridget Riley with my eyes after a couple of pints.

The taxi driver arrived to take me to the station. He was an articulate man, the first time I've heard the word "moribund" (as what the village is not) in a taxi, although I'm glad the conversation was good because the fare was almost as breathtaking as the scenery, at over a pound a minute. I was the only person on the rail replacement bus service back to Lancaster. The driver shared her chocolate, asked me where I'd been, and made some elongated undulating "ooh" sounds which made me feel uneasy about going into much detail about it, lest she considered me a bit poncy.

In Other News: Arty from Glasgow does reply, eventually. "Yes it would be nice to meet you. Tuesday would be good for me." Now I've just got to get a coherent story as to why I'm going there, repeat it to myself a few times and test it for internal inconsistencies. I'll see what conferences are on at the two universities; that's a plausible cover story for a PhD student.