13 minute read
TripLit with D. Major
TripLit with D. Major
It was a windy and wet day in Leeds, England and the first stanza of “Marching On Together,” was running on a continuous loop in my head: Here we go with Leeds United, We're gonna give the boys a hand, Stand up and sing for Leeds united, They are the greatest in the land.
For those unfamiliar with this catchy little tune, it’s the anthem for Leeds United Football Club. And if you’re totally unfamiliar with Leeds, its rich football history and not so wholesome reputation, watch the movie, The Damned United. You will shed a tear, but hopefully you will get a taste for what the club and their fans have gone through. Why loyalty means and matters. Follow the movie up with the series, Take Us Home: Leeds United (2019-2020). Even recently, I’ve heard the team referred to as “Dirty Leeds,” a lingering sentiment from their glory days. I’m not sure I agree today with this moniker, but at one juncture from their past, the name held some merit.
I inherited the Leeds’s addiction through marriage. My hubby, Nick, a Brummie (born in Birmingham, England and not Alabama, though my family fondly nicknamed him the English Redneck), is Leeds through and through and has been a massive fan since childhood. He’s fifty-six. If you need a frame of reference, think George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series where he depicts his characters from “The North '' as fiercely loyal. I’m pretty sure Leeds’s fans were his inspiration. There’s no words to describe what it’s like to attend a game at Elland Road. I won’t even attempt it.
Now, if you’re wondering if this piece is about an English football team, I’m wondering the same. I’m fairly certain something literary will develop soon if you stick with me. You see I’m what writers refer to as a pantser which means when my muse begins whispering word magic into my ears I start typing what she has gifted me until the volume gets softer and softer, the words and sentences eventually becoming inaudible and that’s it for the day. Not! The whispering commences a few hours later because my muse is an attention whore. Absolutely relentless. I don’t know if I sold my soul to her or vice versa, but we sort of battle throughout the evening with me pondering a word choice, a character, or worrying over her shunning me before a deadline because I did something silly like called her an attention whore. Largely, I try to placate her until the following morning. You never quite know what you’re going to get from day to day, where you will land. That said with all this football talk, I have managed to say something writerly. But it’s simply impossible to write about the literary sides of Leeds without commenting on the giant who resides there. So…
It was the morning after the last match and Nick was sick as a dog. Truthfully, he was sick on the night of the match, but like I said…fiercely loyal. He wasn’t going to miss the match even if he had coughed up both lungs. Plus, ten of his mates from Leeds United America had traveled there and were sharing a box. Big doings. Two days into the future Nick landed at the Linda McCartney Centre in Liverpool where he underwent breathing treatments and came close to being admitted to the hospital. Sidenote: The NHS rocks. Imagine getting care that isn’t monetized. We paid nothing and the medical staff were so compassionate. That’s a different hobby horse and I haven’t even touched on literary Leeds like I promised.
So, I wasn’t sick (yet), which meant I had an entire day to explore Leeds by myself. And me being me, I wanted to investigate the city’s literary attractions. Of course, it was spitting rain and damn cold; staying out of the elements was key. The restored Victorian and Edwardian shopping arcades offered me much needed shelter from the weather. I’m sure I looked like a lost tourist ambling through the arcades staring at the ceilings. The Yorkshire dales are breathtaking, but if you’re looking for urban beauty, Leeds city center is spectacular. The arcades vary from farmer’s markets with local vendors to luxury shopping, but each possess their own charm, and merge the past with the present. And guess what? I found my “literary destination” at Thorton’s Arcade.
Three stories up amongst a glass roof and lancet windows I discovered The Ivanhoe Clock. It’s absolutely exquisite, featuring four life-size characters from Sir Walter Scott’s novel, Ivanhoe. From left to right: Robin Hood in green, Friar Tuck in black, Richard the Lionheart in red, and Gurth the Swineherd in khaki. I have a thing for cuckoo clocks and bells, so the Ivanhoe clock was a delight to experience.
After discovering the Ivanhoe clock, I wanted to see what other literary curiosities Leeds might render. It was still raining; I was still staring into the sky. That’s what it’s like visiting Europe. With all the cathedrals and magnificent architecture, you constantly walk with your head in the clouds. I’m glad I did because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have seen three glorious words carved into a building above some shops: The Leeds Library. Go ahead and add an inflection to the “the” prior to “Leeds Library.” This library without doubt deserves an extra umph.
There was a woman with a child hovering under the enclosure to the entrance. I tucked in right behind them and overheard the receptionist saying, “Sorry, this is a private members-only library and not really a children’s library.” She did, however, provide the option of a quick look-about. The woman was a little put off; I was also confused. My mind was doing the math: Little girl loves books (had one in her hand actually) + Little girl standing before the doors of a library = LET LITTLE GIRL IN IN. But no, nope. They opted to continue on their way foregoing the mini tour. And once I had finagled my way in, I understood the receptionist wasn’t being unkind. It wasn’t the right place for children.
So, how was I to get into this VIP library without being a member? Because now after hearing “private” and “members only,” I desperately wanted to see what mysteries dwelled behind those double doors. I waited a couple of minutes, long enough for the woman and the child to be out of earshot, and I did what any red-blooded American does when they want something.
“Hi, I’m an American. I don’t have a membership, but I write a column about literary destinations, and I was interested in doing a piece about your library. I was wondering if I could just pop in for about fifteen minutes.”
Pulling the American card had some risks, but there was no getting out of my Yankee accent. Maybe after WWII, it would have gone off without a hitch. And to my Southern friends reading this, I know. I know I’m not a Yankee. But over the pond, they don’t make distinctions between our North and South (they certainly do with their geography), so I got called Yank or Yankee a bunch of times. The point is, I was hoping the American bit would indicate my dedication since after all I had traveled some distance to be outside the library’s doors. Truth. I came for the football. But no one had to know that. And why would a Yank be going to watch Leeds United play anyway?
If the American tourist card failed, then surely the part about “writing a column about literary destinations” and being “interested in doing a piece about your library” angle would secure my way in. Plus, I promised fifteen minutes. Promises, promises. I didn’t overstay my welcome, but I lingered beyond those fifteen minutes.
I must admit something before I go any further. The literary destination column was a teeny fib. I had conversations with WELL READ Magazine’s editor, Mandy Haynes, about writing a column, but I hadn’t pitched “TripLit With D. Major” to her. I didn’t even have a title for the column. Yeah, maybe I stretched the truth while I sat outside those locked library doors, but after hearing myself say out loud: “I write a column about literary destinations,” I knew it would happen; I was simply making the universe aware.
She buzzed me in! I had the same sensation from my younger years when the girls and I hit the clubs somewhat wearing clothes and breezing past folks waiting behind two stanchions with a red velvet rope between them and a doorman. Ohhh…I was giddy with expectation. Wow. If a fancy rope and a bouncer were blocking the entrance to anything I deemed worthy of my time, I’d turn promptly around. I’m shaking my head whilst typing this.
The Leeds Library didn’t disappoint. It’s a hidden gem concealed in a Neoclassical Georgian building off Commercial Street in the city center. From street level you walk through the atrium past glass display cases. A winding Georgian staircase with a domed ceiling lightens your climb as you past by busts of prominent early members. At the top of the stairs, you encounter more doors—unlocked this time—and from there you enter the main room where you are hit by the most enchanting fragrance, thousands of books. Heavy dark wooden bookshelves, tables, and chairs abound. The counter dates back to 1821 though it was later extended. Spiral staircases lead from the main room up to the East and West galleries. Finely crafted, ornate wrought iron balustrades surround the balconies overlooking the main room and of course the provide more floor-to-ceiling books. Large windows afford the perfect amount of natural light.
I would gladly while away a dreary Yorkshire day lounging on a window bench while reading. And my muse was going berserk when she spied the multiple writing nooks tucked away under the gallery balconies and secreted between bookshelves.
The library was expanded in the 1800s and adjacent to the main room is “The New Room,” ironically still referred to by that name even today at its tender age of 140 years old. There are only two entrances from the main room to the new room and I sort of stumbled upon those entryways while traveling through the maze of bookshelves.
The staff were ever so friendly. I must say that Yorkshire people are often misunderstood, mistakenly stereotyped as a tad gruff. I didn’t have that experience at all. When I inquired about buying a signed, limited edition, watercolor print of the main room, I never considered haggling. I was happy to pay the asking price even though there was a smudge or two from it being the last print and from being on display. I mean the funds go to support this incredible institution which by the way is 255 years old and the longest surviving and oldest subscription library in the U.K. If you're scratching your head about what a subscription library is, think of it in terms of being member-owned. There is a fee, but it's nominal. In any case, by the time I was handing over my credit card, the librarian had lowered the price three times. It’s probably a good thing I got a great deal with the cost of framing. It hangs in my own writing space, and I cherish it. She also gave me a complimentary book on the history of the library (Beckwith, Frank, The Leeds Library 1768-1968, The Leeds Library, 1994.). Any of the historical information I’ve mentioned in this piece I found in this book or on The Leeds Library’s website.
I so wanted to join that day, but at the most we might return every two years to Leeds. And sometimes, Nick goes on his own for a boy’s trip. I didn’t inquire about membership, even though my muse had already set up shop in a writing nook and was refusing to leave.
But here's the thing: remote access. It was the only way I was going to wrangle my muse out the library. You won’t get all the in-person perks members receive like author events, art exhibitions, book chat, book club, craft club, film club, and writing groups—but online material may be accessed remotely and it’s extensive.
The online catalogue has approximately 140,000 tiles as well as over sixty magazines, daily newspapers, audio books, CDs, and DVDs. Their PressReader service includes more than 6,000 newspapers and journals. Drama Online offers collections from the National Theatre, The Globe Theatre, Royal Shakespeare Company, and LA Theatre Works. Academy courses are offered via The Idler. They have a podcast called “Tales from the Leeds Library.” I seriously doubt you would be able to take advantage of postal loan services unless you lived in the U.K. No bother.
So, after you’ve worked your way through your assigned Leeds United Football watchlist, booked your airline ticket, somehow obtained a much coveted Leeds United gameday ticket…wait not a fan yet? If after all that you’re still not convinced about the football and you still find yourself in Leeds one day, I hope I’ve presented some alternatives to get out of the cold and damp weather. And if you’re book fiend and librarian aficionado, do schedule a tour of the Leeds Library in advance. I found out after the fact that they offer tours, so the whole VIP fantasy from before and even my fib weren’t necessary if I had booked ahead of time. How was I to know? I wonder how many locals know about this little beauty. Its location is totally obscured by the shops below it and easily overlooked.
Though no one was pushing me out the door, my time was up. I had already made a blood oath to my muse to move to Leeds and I needed to get back to poor Nick and inform him we would be putting our home in Atlanta on the market and setting up residency near The Leeds Library.
And can you already guess it? What happened within moments of leaving paradise? No sooner had I hit the pavement and “Marching On Together” returned. Something in the air, I swear. I will say that this time the words meant a little more to me. That song isn’t just about the football or the team. It’s about loyalty, it’s about pride for the city of Leeds and its people. And hell yeah! I love Leeds, too. Perhaps, I was a little high off all those books and the blood sacrifice to my muse, but on my way back to my ailing husband I may have sung the last stanza out loud: Everyday, we're all gonna say, We love you Leeds! Leeds! Leeds! Everywhere, we're gonna be there, We, love you Leeds! Leeds! Leeds!
And I meant every word.
Some items of interest that I learned after the fact:
The library comes with a ghost at no extra cost. The librarian had mentioned their ghost while I was paid for commemorative ink pens and my lovely print. The sixth librarian, Mr. Vicent Thomas Sternberg, passed away in 1880, but his spirits was later seen entering the gentleman’s lavatory. Here’s the thing, the librarian didn’t tell me the full story. I read about it much later on their website. But for some odd reason I captured an image of the lavatory. Mmmhmm….
