The death of David Hockney this week has made many headlines and brought some wonderful tributes to a great artist. I can’t add anything of significance to those but I do just want to acknowledge the joy that so many of his images have brought me and so many others. Prints of Garrowby Hill and a letterbox format ‘Arrival of Spring in Woldgate’ have brightened our sitting room for some years now. Thank you, David, for the joyous images and for setting a wonderful example of always seeking new ways to express your art.
A number of feature articles and obituaries have mentioned Salt’s Mill (now often styled without apostrophe but I’m old-school) in Saltaire and that has had me reminiscing in the rather random way of this blog…
I used to live with my family just up the hillside above Saltaire, West Yorkshire, from 1965-1973. The mill was still a place of work then – it didn’t close until 1986. Saltaire is a model village, established by industrialist and politician Sir Titus Salt, and since 2001 a UNESCO World Heritage site, and justifiably so.
For me, Saltaire meant many things…Firstly, the Methodist chapel on Sundays – 2 or 3 times – morning and evening services with my mum (both in choir) & dad and teaching Sunday School after lunch for me. Dad would probably shoot off to collect Gran and/or an elderly aunt to join us for tea. How my parents juggled all this still fills me with admiration.

When I was about 14 it was decided to form a Guide unit at the church and I was roped in, partly I think as additional support for the Guider and her assistant as most of the other girls were rather younger. That was another visit to chapel, as was the weekly choir practice, or as on this occasion, double-booking of choir and Sunday morning church parade!

This was the original chapel, sadly demolished in 1970 to make was for a more practical and affordable building. Fortunately the rather splendid organ was saved and went to a new home. I was given permission to go and play the organ in that last year or so after a brief introduction to the impressive instrument; I didn’t have lessons, which I regretted later, but thoroughly enjoyed working my way through the Methodist Hymn Book and a few other pieces. I was tinkering with ‘I bind unto myself today‘ when I heard a cough. Rev. Evans was standing at the back, having popped in to see what was going on; he nodded and said “Ah, St Patrick’s Breastplate,” fortunately recognising the tune, but then added “A trifle dented, I fear!” I didn’t persist with the organ!
On a Saturday with a few weeks’ pocket money savings burning a hole, I would wend my way with a friend, another Ruth, to the Llama Shop opposite the mill, by the station (originally the Dining Room, I believe, now part of Shipley College), where they sold fabric and clothes from the alpaca mill – mostly seconds or otherwise a bargain. I remember acquiring a heather-purple woollen bouclé maxi-coat that I reckon weighed as much as a decent suit of armour, but I thought I was the bee’s knees!
More regularly for me on Saturdays the main Saltaire attraction was the library, and I would greet the Trafalgar Square “reject” lions en route. I think I worked my way through the entire Sci Fi section in fairly short order, and moved on from there, being a voracious reader.
All of this reminiscence is a long way from Hockney and his work; I must draw the ramble to a close. I was pleased to see the late Jonathan Silver take on the mill shortly after its closure in the 80s and develop it into the enterprise it is today. Salt’s Mill is still a family affair and the Hockney collection is enviable. We almost always visit when we head back to Yorkshire – not as often as I would like these days.
Here are just a few of my images of Hockney galleries, Mill and village.






























