The Village

Moaning Lisa

2011-11-13T18:24:00.012Z

This is a busker I photographed in Whitby recently.

People give money to listen to the chap moaning about the weather and other such things so enjoyed by English folk.

Not so scary as the nearby Dracula Experience, but visitors seem to like it.

The seaside experience has become more sophisticated since I was a lad, though some simple things will always be delighted in, like fish and chips, donkeys, and sugary rock.

For National Poetry Day !

2011-09-17T09:41:00.008+01:00

GAMES

They tell us life is all about games,
helping to shape our specific aims;

it’s no good rotting under a tree,
dreaming of the vital, perfect she.

You can learn much from Monopoly,
lose your shirt playing Totopoly

- a horse racing game – a real wind-up
- don’t forget to seize the shiny cup.

Then they say life is not just a game,
that each working day must be the same:

polish the C.V. and business plan,
you are just a servant of ‘The Man.’

In lunch breaks, perhaps, a match of chess,
or watching your dream French maid undress;

maybe pool will be the perfect cue -
pocketing balls that are straight and true.

Some are astray – lost lotus-eaters,
the poets’ of one hundred metres,

always stumbling at the finish line,
insisting the game is going fine.

Paul Judges

http://www.nationalpoetryday.co.uk/

This year's day is October 6th, with the theme GAMES.

Full English

2011-08-11T09:19:00.002+01:00

FULL ENGLISH

The isles of grease, the isles of grease !
Where yearning Duffy loved and sung,
Where grew the flabby and obese,
Where Tories rose, and Labour sprung !
The English breakfast fills them yet,
But all is undone, all is debt.

The mountains look on Cumbria –
And Cumbria looks on the sea;
And walking there an hour alone,
I dreamed that life might still be free;
For standing on old Wainwright’s grave,
I could not be a mere wage slave.

A queen sits on the shiny throne
Blanking out that horrible year;
Prince William on the mobile phone,
Sensing her Crown is very near !
He courted Kate in public glare –
Always The Sun is frank and fair !

Why choose AV ? Why choose PR ?
Because the voiceless vote will count
Not only in the smokeless bar,
or when the kettling cops dismount;
Democracy must still improve -
It’s sweet to see the people move.

The X Factor, and easy fame,
Escaping from a dead-end job;
We’re burning the Olympic flame,
For winners, not the angry mob;
For what is left the person here ?
So many lives are lived in fear.

Fill high the glass with alcopops !
Our women dance on spilt cold beer,
And breasts emerge from skimpy tops,
She’ll punch you if you call her: ‘Dear.’
Later, it’s all tears and vomit,
No dinner date – so far from it.

We’re victims of a subtle plan,
Far removed from natural law;
So obsessed with the hunting ban,
Or what the bloody butler saw.
A land of slaves we’ll never be -
Let’s raise the English cup of tea !

One with everything

2011-07-01T09:16:00.009+01:00

West Yorkshire

2011-06-07T14:12:00.019+01:00

We recently left behind the lonely Yorkshire Wolds for an excursion to the real prosperity and vibrancy of Leeds city centre; then on to the disturbingly declining Bradford - the city with a hole in the middle. At least you can get a splendidly fragrant curry there, while looking out of the window to where a policewoman was murdered.

It's possible to do remarkable things, like go shopping (the Primark scrum) and use public transport - such delights are not available in the wilds of rural North Yorkshire, where an escaped sheep will make the front page of the weekly local rag.

Picture taken in the centre of Leeds

LEEDS LIMERICK

There was a tall woman from Leeds
who flaunted her own special needs
- a different chap every night
and the scar of a passionate bite,
under streetlamps shining like beads

Blue Wind

2011-05-01T10:32:00.024+01:00

The great drought continues, if we discount the brief shower on Royal Wedding day. Stunning blue skies on the Yorkshire coast yesterday, but the sea was rather wild due to strong winds all the way from Russia - according to our local TV celebrity weatherman.

We had travelled the back roads of the Yorkshire Wolds in search of wonderful hedge blossom, following a recommendation from famous artist, and Bridlington resident, David Hockney. Seems we'll have to wait a few more weeks for the 'high' Wolds to catch up with the flat Vale of York in terms of flowery plant growth.

So it was into Bridlington itself for fish and chips, and the birds.........

Blue skies, wild seas at Bridlington yesterday

The birds are always after fish and chips

Should our children be treated like this in the 21st century ?!

Late Bloomer

2011-04-03T12:15:00.019+01:00

The driest March ever recorded ! We've certainly had some wonderful days to explore these small chalk hills. The simple pleasure of walking is often underrated in our car-obsessed society.

The snow of early winter feels like a distant memory.

The Village is pleased to see Ron Sexsmith getting more recognition with his latest album: Long Player, Late Bloomer.

I've been lucky enough to see him in York and Leeds a few times. He must be overjoyed to get five stars out of five in the recent York Press review of his new record !

I hope you enjoy this track from earlier in his career:

Over the River

2011-03-02T13:07:00.006Z

LOOKING TOWARDS LINCOLNSHIRE

The south bank was just
an impressionist smudge

we could see the earth’s
curve in the floating deck

February was clinging
to the estuary sludge,

the juggernaut of goods
- a shrinking speck;

you looked to the flat
fields of yellowbelly

flavourful sausages,
and midnight poaching

Yorkshire folk call them
coarse and smelly,

and their language skills
need careful coaching;

I see you’re thinking
about years of war

when women fought
for the army of land,

she’d tell you how
their palms were sore,

and kids of today
could not understand;

the same wide river,
the dream of a bridge

where merciless
Roman legions came

down from billowing
chalkland ridge

- enforcers in the
Emperor’s name;

you try to recall
through winter’s fog

gathering samphire
in your summer coats

hearing the wind
like a whining dog

ripping the scarves
from tender throats

Owls

2011-02-02T09:52:00.006Z

THE PAINTER OF OWLS

Nearly all the barn owls
have starved this snowy winter

and the lone wildlife artist
is taking dead mice round;

he’s just had some picture
cards back from the printer,

but there are so few alive
above the flinty ground.

He tries to keep the
last ones from going

the same savage way
as their dead-silent allies;

in the elm’s hollow womb
it has stopped snowing,

and more might patrol
in the shrieking skies.

He dreams of entering
a safe barn in spring

seeing the adult
spread flat on the floor

four long-necked nestlings
shelter under wing,

he smiles, and closes
the battered door.

Richter

2011-01-05T09:41:00.003Z

North Yorkshire has recently experienced a tremor measuring 3.6 on the Richter scale......

EARTHQUAKE

Did the earth move for you
at three minutes-past nine ?

Or were you light-headed
from too much red wine ?

Our first real quake
of twenty-eleven

in a snowy slice
of Yorkshire heaven;

many were thinking
of returning to work

and forcing a smile
for the management jerk

when he asks if this
is a happy New Year

- the public laughter,
and the private tear.

It felt like a fast train
speeding through a station

or a sexy climax
to years of frustration,

some went on watching
the murders on TV

as if that was more real
than the shaking of a tree

in their own back garden
of fracturing ice

or the car with its
trembling fluffy dice.

Before the tremor
our dog went quiet

and the pet canary
caused a riot

as the cat knocked
over the Christmas tree

and mother spilled
her mug of tea;

six kilometres down
the fault was grating

while upstairs Jonny
was masturbating,

the seismograph
was madly writing

as the room blinked
- flickering lighting.

Now thinking of those
who died elsewhere

or sleep on the streets
with dust in their hair

some quakes are higher
on the Richter scale,

even aftershocks
turn a grown man pale

Snow

2010-12-02T14:20:00.016Z

As we endure all this early and troublesome snow, some consolation can perhaps be taken from the fact it's the shortest day this month and days will gradually become lighter and lighter and lighter......it's hard to believe, but it happens pretty much the same every year.

Not always snowy from November though ! Our gutters have collapsed under the weight of relentless white stuff.

And don't get me started on the price of fuel !!

I'm definitely moving to sunny Portugal to marry a woman similar to the one depicted in Love Actually.

Royal Wedding

2010-11-18T11:34:00.026Z

Happy couple in Whitby, recently

Living not far from the delightful settlement of Middleton-on-the-Wolds, it has been a particular delight to hear the recent news of a forthcoming royal marriage.

It's a little-known fact that the happy couple met in the Chinese takeaway of the village mentioned above (chicken curry and chips and shredded duck balls) after a heavy session in the Robin Hood Inn.

The relationship was finally consummated in a nearby stable recently vacated by a shire horse stallion.

News of the royal wedding is also an enormous encouragement to the millions of children and adults around the world who can barely feed themselves. Our royal family provide a shining example of the fair distribution of wealth in this ancient kingdom.

Only a surprise marriage between Simon Cowell and Cheryl Cole could possibly capture our recession-ravaged hearts more.

I would also like to mention and thank, Ugly Betty, who showed us the true value of blogging, via the miracle of television.

Village of Gifts

2010-10-01T09:12:00.011+01:00

It's not often that free gifts are left out in our small community on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds; though somebody did give away a nice sofa some time ago.

In such a cash-driven world it's refreshing to take a simple offering of apples, prepare some shortcrust pasty - as taught in school Domestic Science in the 1970s - and bake a reasonable pie.

It would be wonderful to have a bakery here, like the places that are so common in Greece; but we can still make our own, and light a real fire for these darker nights !

A strong and peaty whisky might also hit the spot.......

Apart from apples, local rhubarb is commonly used in delicious crumbles; and cries of pleasure and pain are often heard from our remoter barns, where rhubarb stalks are utilised to thrash bare flesh in ceremonies dating back hundreds of years.

Last

2010-09-16T08:46:00.013+01:00

The last days of summer
picking berries from the hedge
and the morning dew
soaking through our shoes

in the pie we could taste
both warmth and rain
and imagine the fields
- ever-changing views

now grass is cut low
it’s easy to walk free
on the smooth or stubble,
first leaves from the gale

we heard a young man
was lost at sea
saving some friends
who never learned to sail

these nights are almost
frosty, but we keep
the heating off, it’s not
even September !

and we’ve stacked
no wood in the garage
that might become
tomorrow’s cheerful ember

life will seem more normal
when the kids go back
chained to their desks
and struggling to spell

talking very fast
about wanting a Wii
and summer abroad
on holidays from hell

the village will be
silent through the day
apart from playtime voices
riding the autumn breeze

it will be just
the natural world
- exquisite colours,
before the big freeze

Note: Wii is an electronic gaming platform

(Copyright: The Village 2010)

Istanbul and Bulgaria

2010-08-24T14:01:00.023+01:00

It's been refreshing to have a brief stay in the vibrant city of Istanbul, along with a longer time in dog-eared, dog eat dog (post-communist) Bulgaria - both pleasantly different to the Yorkshire Wolds ! Reassuring to return to some damp and cool weather and the vague aroma of autumn........

Turkish footwear

Istanbul

Smart puss in Sozopol, Bulgaria

Sozopol harbour

Sozopol, Black Sea

Sozopol

2010-08-01T08:39:00.006+01:00

This year we are holidaying in the ancient resort of Sozopol, Bulgaria, as our daughter has refused to go to the Greek islands again !

POLICEMAN OF THE HUMAN HEART

We didn’t really plan
to visit Bulgaria
where the women are vast
and so much hairier

Why not stay at home ?
Afraid to step out,
feeling much worse;
instead of a shout

in the real world
of human exchange
- large bricks are hurled
at somebody strange

and it’s always sinners
casting heavy stones;
so obsessed by winners,
fashion bags of bones

but I will find real beauty
in the streets of Sozopol
because it is my duty
to act like Interpol

firm, but fair – arresting
miraculous human hearts,
and they will be protesting
while surrendering, like tarts

Escaping

2010-06-28T09:21:00.046+01:00

We left behind so many village activities, like Church, Chapel, Brownies, Friends of the School, Embroidery Group, Youth Work, Macmillan nurses' coffee mornings, Yorkshire Countrywomen's Association, Reading Club, Fete Committee, a neighbour trimming her bush, gardening, barbecues, England football match at the pub followed by the Yorkshire Pudding eating competition (very dangerous to stuff your face in such hot weather).

The coast is always a good escape on these surprisingly sweltering days; there has been so little rain in the last few months that Cumbria (one of the wettest areas in England) is considering a hosepipe ban ! How will all the Sunday morning chaps keep their precious cars clean and gardens watered ?

We ended-up at Ulrome, south of Bridlington, where caravans are doing their best not to fall into the North Sea from the small mud cliffs. The road to Skipsea, or as the young lad calls it: Seaskip, has partially collapsed onto the beach and plenty of red signs are displayed warning that the road is no longer in use. I remember the Midweek radio programme many years ago with Libby Purves, featuring the battle of nearby Mappleton with the waves - inevitably lost.

It was good to feel the cooling sea breeze as we munched our cheese or tuna butties, gazing out at the few bathers or boaters. Our young lad was soon in the shallows, claiming that the water was almost tepid, presumably caused by sun warming the sand before the tide came in. There was even a small cafe and shop perched on the edge of substantial fortifications that have been constructed over a couple of hundred yards only - most of this coastline is left to the relentless ravages of the sea.

As my sister lives only a few miles away, we were foolish enough to leave the delights of nature in the hope of seeing a World Cup football win for 'mighty' England - the pain is too great to even begin talking about that.....

Vaguely Topical

2010-06-20T09:43:00.010+01:00

Here is my stab at trying to mention all 32 nations.......

FOOTBALL WORLD CUP 2010
– THE VIEW FROM ENGLAND

Chile love being offensive, and
it's a country of strong wines

England seem disappointing,
when it comes to widespread vines

North Korea weep with joy
just to play with gods, Brazil

New Zealand, all white and bald,
South Africa pays the bill

I hope we don’t meet Argentina
they’ll remember the Falklands War

United States, so powerful
but could only manage a draw

The Germans and Italians
now shun the fascist nation

along with fast and fiery Spain;
the Dutch knew occupation

You would expect the Japanese
to be brutal, but polite

when playing Cameroon
in a very sweaty fight

Will Denmark bring home the bacon ?
Their game is rather boring

Portugal has the talent,
Ronaldo will be scoring

Switzerland emerge
always very much on time

Mexico now doing well,
drinking beer with a shot of lime

Algeria, well supported
by Zidane, who played for France

and I’m really keen to see
if Uruguay seize their chance

Greece could do with some luck,
their economy is failing

try South Korean industry,
not just slick retailing

Don’t know about Honduras
or Paraguay come to that

but none of these teams are easy
with goalkeepers like a cat

Nigeria has Goodluck,
Drogba is Ivory Coast

Slovenia offer free holidays
if they lift the Cup, in toast

Serbia love to fight,
Australia, most ignore

and could little Slovakia
meet Ghana, and then score ?

There’s a good chance I’ve forgotten
some of the bravest boys

as all the action is drowned
in trumpets of endless noise

(Copyright: Paul Judges / MaverickHeart 2010)

Football on the beach at Filey, Yorkshire

A Day on the River

2010-06-14T09:17:00.047+01:00

Knaresborough - click to enlarge, & browser Back button to return

If Freddie Mercury was still with us, A Day on the River, might have been a good companion album to Queen's wonderful early records: A Night at the Opera and A Day at the Races, but his very surname suggested life might end prematurely after burning so brightly for a relatively short time. After the winter we had, warm, sunny days still feel like a delightful surprise in northern England, and we are lucky to have so much natural and constructed beauty to explore in this largest county.

We had our General Election vote three weeks after everyone else due to the death of a UKIP candidate, but it is always a foregone conclusion in these parts - it's like having a tiny cut on your finger in an Olympic-sized swimming pool - my insignificant drop of blood red in a vast expanse of blue. Rural North Yorkshire will always be true blue Tory, which is totally alien to me ! No wonder I don't fit in round here.....

Luckily, Politics is an irrelevance to most people, most of the time; it's much more productive and enjoyable to have a session of rowing on the Nidd at Knaresborough, beneath the magnificent railway viaduct. Each member of our family had a bungled go with the oars, and you start to have greater respect for people like Steve Redgrave who has collected so many gold medals for dipping wood into water.

Knaresborough is now top of my list for places to live in North Yorkshire, because it has amazing things that you just don't get in our Wolds village location, like shops, cafes, boats, a castle, buses, cash dispensers, and most wonderful of all - easy rail connections to Harrogate, Leeds and York via the achingly lovely, high stone bridge. All I need is a lottery win to buy a black and white checked house above the small river of dreams.

The Secret of Happiness

2010-06-07T11:10:00.012+01:00

THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS

I stumbled upon
the secret of happiness

a brief article
on the Internet

a lottery win
brings material wealth

but life is much more
than what you can get

cherish friends
and family

you’ll live
a few years longer

don’t forget
to show affection

it actually
makes you stronger

show kindness
like the Dalai Lama

he really knows
how to laugh

a good diet
and some exercise

followed by
a fragrant bath

every day, write
at least three things

that went well,
to be grateful for

spend hours
in the natural world

beyond your
locked front door

slow down, and
learn to relax

don’t burn out
by forty-three

forgive yourself
and that neighbour

and be happy
as just me

(The neighbour bit might be a challenge !!!)

Copyright: MaverickHeart (2010)

After Bank Holiday

2010-06-01T06:51:00.011+01:00

Bridlington Harbour, 31 May 2010

In the United Kingdom we have a few Bank (Public) Holidays when everywhere is busy, and it also causes disruption to the normal weekly rhythm of work and play

AFTER BANK HOLIDAY

Beware the Tuesday
that feels like Monday
and the giant black crow
on the garden fence

the long weekend
ends abruptly, and
the working week
makes little sense

of course I banged
on the window
and the big, black
bird flew away

but I know
it will beak-tap
the glass at dawn
almost every day

I tell myself
to stay positive
have confidence
and simply believe

only when old
friends are gone
is it time
to stop and grieve

I know the birds
are busily nesting
and often
loudly tweeting

as this warm
opportunity window
is precious, and
always fleeting

Bridlington beach

A Good Measure

2010-05-19T09:45:00.031+01:00

(Click image to enlarge, and browser Back button to return)

It seems remarkable that last week parts of Yorkshire were reporting snow, and now we are pushing towards seventy degrees Fahrenheit and beyond; there has been very little rain in recent weeks, and some reservoirs are looking quite low. The sunshine is encouraging us to escape into the countryside, yet most folk are content to stick to major roads and the joys of traffic jams to and from the coast.

This is a good thing for anyone who loves minor roads with grass growing down the middle, and even on a Bank Holiday it's possible to be virtually alone in the Yorkshire Wolds or the Moors back routes towards Whitby. Sheep are often derided for flocking together, but we humans seem very nervous straying from the safety of wide tarmac and built-up areas.

Many English folk will be praying for that elusive 'barbecue summer' avoiding the need to take a flight through volcanic ash, and enjoying a large portion of fish and chips by the North Sea (other areas of salty water are available). I will always have a powerful urge to escape other humans, particularly the small-minded women of our little community on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. A man will usually be happier in his shed, garage or allotment, but many women are only kept alive by petty gossip (according to my detailed and scientifically robust study over several years in 'The Village'). These characters are the rural, 'human' equivalent of our worst tabloid newspapers, but without the humour.

Real change in the UK ?

2010-05-12T09:52:00.014+01:00

(Click image to enlarge, and browser Back button to return)

Can two public schoolboys really have any insight into the lives of the least well-off in society ? Recent reports tell us there has been no narrowing in the wealth gap in the last forty years !!!

I would also like to mention that under a genuinely fair PR voting system the Tories would not be leading the country ! It would be a centre-Left coalition - on votes cast - not the fiddle of MP numbers.

*I forgot to say yesterday that London is also run by a product of the 'public' school system......is this really the 21st century ?!

I look forward to seeing a female, Asian ex-hospital cleaner as Prime Minister ! Then I'll consider voting......

Sometimes we leave TV and other modern distractions behind and explore our unique landscape

2010-05-06T08:52:00.009+01:00

Click image to grow, and browser Back button to return

Please note: Minger, is a popular insult amongst young people - a definition can easily be found on the Web if needed

Public Hanging

2010-04-29T09:21:00.030+01:00

Signpost not far from our village

Woman blames immigrants for local problems, & not really interested in other views...sounds like a bigot to me.

Why apologise Gordon Brown ?

Here's a short verse on the current peculiar situation - our Kingdom on the cusp of an allegedly significant development:

United Kingdom Menopause

I really don't know why

they're hanging Gordon out to dry

we must be going through the change

hot flushes, and just feeling strange

View towards Hanging Grimston via magical gated road (Pictures taken 28 April, 2010 on another motorcycle excursion)

Other comments overheard from political candidates: (About a larger lady in Cleckheaton) 'She doesn't sweat much for a fat lass.'

(On seeing a smoker in Sidcup) 'I haven't had a fag since public school.'

(Visiting an animal shelter) 'The wife's never keen to do it dog-style, but I can always employ a researcher.'

(Giving a lecture to drama students) 'Life is not a rehearsal.'

An important appointment

2010-04-22T10:39:00.054+01:00

The view from near Flamborough lighthouse, Yorkshire, where you can find some of the best chips in England

I have an important appointment in our small Yorkshire Wolds village at 13.40 this afternoon, unless the visit of the mobile library is cancelled because of the volcanic ash cloud from Iceland, or simply lack of interest. The large vehicle of books only comes once every three weeks for a very short stay, which could easily be missed if one's bowels suddenly become loose, or a similar catastrophe brought on by worry about the forthcoming UK General Election.

Three weeks ago, in the school holidays, our young lad took out three books:

1. Beast Quest - The Dark Realm

2. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

3. Vet in a Spin by James Herriot

He thought I might like the vet story, and though I have fond memories of beautiful Carol Drinkwater in the TV series so long ago, this type of read is not really my cup of tea. After finishing the enjoyable tales of house building in Greece by John Humphrys I'm in-between books at the moment, so any suggestions would be most welcome.

I had thought David Cameron was a safe bet for our next PM, simply because people are fed-up with Labour, even though they have done some good things, like get rid of Tony Blair ! The only chance they have of winning is if Sarah Brown takes over at the last minute. But now we have the Clegg bounce to contend with as pretty boy Nick Clegg has so far performed well on TV - a bit like John and Edward in the X-Factor. It seems the usual change from Labour to Tory or vice versa might not be a big enough transformation after all the nonsense of MPs fiddled expenses.

We can experience some real joy in this glorious weather that has replaced the dark and chilly winter, though comfort food is still a must - it's all too easy for those living in hotter places like Greece and Portugal to consume healthy fish and vegetables, but we will always have a need for deep-fried fish and chips when a bitter wind blows down from Iceland. We recently tasted some of the finest chips on the planet, at the cafe close to Flamborough's lighthouse on the high chalk and mud cliffs - I might not live so long as those in the Mediterranean (or leafy Berkshire) but at least I can enjoy some wonderful fried potato with lashings of vinegar.

(Update 23 April ! There will now be no voting in our Thirsk and Malton area on 6th May as a UKIP candidate has died !!!)

Digging Scarborough, 13 April 2010

2010-04-14T08:55:00.036+01:00

'I'll give you ten out of ten for effort, but the tide's turned' laughed the donkey handler.

'You're kidding !' I replied.

He laughed again.

'It's no good lad, the sea's not coming in any further.'

'But the water won't fill this big hole now' said our young lad sadly.

Then he threw down his new spade, just purchased for £1.99 on the sea front at Scarborough - with a real wooden handle !

'It's getting very cold anyway, let's go for some fish and chips.'

Silence.

'You like fish and chips.'

'No I don't.'

'I'm sorry, I expected the sea would come up a bit further and fill the enormous hole we dug.'

'Not fair !'

'Shall we go to the Fish Pan then ?'

'Can I go on a donkey ?'

'They're going home now, it's gone five o'clock.'

'Can we go in the arcades ?'

'Why didn't we just go to Harrogate as planned ?' asked mum.

'It's not even at the seaside !' our young lad replied.

Shambles

2010-04-06T15:53:00.046+01:00

The Shambles Bookshop located in The Shambles, Malton - our nearest town - claims to be the smallest in Britain, but how can this possibly have been verified ? And is it a good thing to boast you have a small shop, which presumably means there isn't a very wide selection ? I must confess to buying most of my books online; perhaps because every time my mother goes into a bookshop she desperately needs the toilet and has to rush out again (too much excitement), which gradually had a negative impact on my bookshop exploration during the important formative years.

The Shambles in nearby York was recently voted the most attractive street in the UK, which again I do not entirely believe, and may have been partly due to its vague resemblance to Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter films. As someone born and brought-up in York I can think of a few more delightful streets, and without the unsavoury butchering history of The Shambles, where the stone gully in the middle actually ran with blood - now it's the even more intrusive lines of tourists snaking towards the Minster or battling into the tiny gift shops.

Malton is much more peaceful, though the livestock market is still just about hanging on at the top of this particular Shambles, which means that theoretically the street could still run with blood if a sheep happens to nick its hoof on the side of a metal pen. The pub closest to the market appears to be up for sale though, like so many around the area, displaying the large wooden signs offering a business opportunity to some crazy couple prepared to work eighteen hours a day.

These pubs that are closing obviously lack the unique selling point of the Malton Shambles Bookshop - if they could claim to be the smallest pub in Britain there would be no problem, or perhaps the only pub that doesn't serve beer, or maybe the unfriendliest public house in northern England - people will actually pay to be insulted, particularly if it's been on the TV. There is one sure thing, if I can squeeze into the smallest bookshop, the proprietor will most likely not be chatting to customers, but adding a long list of books to his Internet account on Amazon Marketplace.

Shambles, York

Easter

2010-03-26T09:47:00.048Z

Church and pond in the tiny hamlet of Bossall - not big enough to be called a village (picture taken 25 March 2010)

Yesterday morning was mild and milky, like an abandoned mug of Horlicks, which seems an incredible thing to say after the snowy and icy winter, but offered another opportunity to take my Benelli Velvet 250cc scooter from the garage. I have been able to enjoy such midweek outings for well over two years now due to voluntary redundancy from a mind and arse-numbing Civil Service office - though the money is fast running out !

I have no wish to return to any kind of ordinary workplace and no desire to obtain any handouts from the state, which leaves me hoping for some kind of miracle to avoid complete financial destitution. This is not why I visited the nearby church at Bossall yesterday - to pray for divine intervention - it was simply to experience a delightful spot and look round an ancient church dating back to 1180. In the near silent interior the many years of history are almost palpable; I was glad that the vicar wasn't around or any ladies arranging flowers, as I might have felt the need to offer some explanation for the visit of an atheist biker.

There aren't many free buildings you can enter in the countryside, and at least this ancient and beautiful structure was unlocked; but it was more about the ambience of the entire hamlet - the pond, a couple of ducks, a few horses, the moated hall, and red post box - and that's about it. There wasn't even the usual wonderful view to my own village and the Wolds yesterday, as the grey mistiness struggled to turn into a blue afternoon.

I have no time for organised religion, yet do feel a strong connection to the countryside and history; apart from the tarmac road and the occasional car the tiny hamlet of Bossall has changed little over the centuries, and there is real peace to be found in such a 'remote' location, if you can ignore all the nonsense going on in your head - little things, like running out of money and being unable to pay for an Internet connection !

View towards Bossall Hall

England's green and pheasant land

2010-03-19T09:17:00.064Z

It's a real joy to finally emerge from a long, hard winter, and have our local TV comedy weatherman mentioning 16 degrees Celsius or 61 Fahrenheit ! We can ignore the fact that it felt quite a bit cooler in the Yorkshire Wolds with that nithering wind, because it's simply fantastic to get rid of all the snow and ice.......and even get the Benelli Velvet scooter out on the pot-holed back roads again.

Inevitably, our daffodils are a few weeks behind up here; I haven't had chance to inspect York's city walls that are rightly famous for their display of brilliant yellow flowers, and in the south of England they will probably be well past their best already due to the kinder climate. As it gets much lighter in the morning and evening I'm certain that our 'close' neighbour will be sending a stiff letter to the Council to complain about the dawn chorus. We also have the lone pheasants wandering drunkenly round the village - they seem to be born demented, which is perhaps not surprising as many are only created to satisfy the gun-lust of folk who have not evolved far enough to move beyond these brainless pursuits - not even killed for food primarily, just 'pleasure.'

We had to attend our fourteen year-old daughter's school progress evening this week, and she was brave enough to tell the English teacher there was no point studying Shakespeare. The teacher admitted there was no time to teach the plays properly as all work must be geared towards getting better exam grades. The science teacher also confirmed it was all about demonstrating you could 'jump through hoops' and any real joy there might be in the subject would have to take a back seat. It seems less surprising with this evidence that exam results have been getting better because we have created a production line of learning almost exclusively for getting higher grades. This is a truly nonsensical state of affairs, far worse than when I was at school - there is virtually no time available to even attempt to impart some delight in a lesson, because it's all about working towards the precious A* - in my opinion we have a sick educational system obsessed with results, and an equally sick employment market blind to true value.

At least I can sometimes forget such nonsense, as I've started paddling in our clear, chalk beck again - partly to wash mud off boots - it's not yet warm enough to do it barefoot, yet there is a primitive pleasure in standing in the shallow water surrounded by the green fuses of the nearly daffodils........there is much joy to be found in the natural world as March proceeds with growing colour towards an even warmer April.

Thank God I'm Ugly and Strange

2010-03-12T09:21:00.043Z

Our young lad balances on the edge of Castle Howard lake, not far from our small village

I have finally become aware of an epidemic of bed-hopping and partner-swapping in this small community, which has come to my attention second-hand because my intercourse with fellow villagers is quite limited - in every sense of the word. I guess it's not surprising as there's so little to do in this rural wilderness, and it has been a long, dark, and very cold winter. In most cases kids are involved, which is the saddest aspect, but maybe sometimes it's better to end a relationship that's not working ?

Along with most men I'm always fantasising about women, celebrity and local, but thanks to my God-given lack of physical beauty and absence of material wealth I'm able to more or less accept my current lot, and am unlikely to attract the attention of potential suitors. Of course, television soaps don't help, because it makes us think that trading-in a husband or wife like a second-hand car is entirely the norm, and it's not worth putting much effort into a weary union. Should we have a Government scrappage scheme for relationships ? That old song: 'If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, go and make an ugly woman your wife' does contain some truth, and the sentiment can apply to both sexes.

The situation has not been helped by local radio - the presenter was waxing lyrical about the expression: 'wet as an otter's pocket', which I had never heard before, and immediately conjured-up delightful visions of our furry friends playing in nearby rivers and streams. It was only after looking on the Internet (a dangerous thing to do) that I discovered the sexual connotation, which the local DJ was clearly unaware of, and naively I had only thought of it in a non-sexual way. But according to the all-powerful World Wide Web it's the opposite of being 'dry as a nun's gusset.'

I don't think it entirely excuses infidelity, but men (I can't speak for women) are biologically programmed to reproduce and seek sexual partners, which is all too easy for the likes of Tiger Woods, Ashley Cole and Mark Owen (Take That), but I am truly blessed in being an ordinary man of no particular note, and can therefore look forward to a relatively quiet life of accidental fidelity, which might also make the kids and dog happier too.

Playful otters (picture courtesy of The Villager !)

Rhubarb, No Custard

2010-03-05T09:29:00.012Z

My first attempt at a rhubarb crumble in many years

In common with many teenagers growing-up in the 1970s my signature dish was apple pie with a nice shortcrust pastry - over indulgence in cakes was much more common than the trendy drugs of today's Twittering youth. I have always been fascinated by the West Yorkshire Rhubarb Triangle where forced rhubarb is grown in almost complete darkness; it's been in the news again recently due to the potential health benefits of cooked rhubarb.

Despite the fact we didn't have any vanilla ice cream in the house, or more traditional custard, I had a go at making a crumble while watching the film Dracula, Dead and Loving It, last Sunday afternoon. I also created a verse in honour of the noble stalks......

FORCED RHUBARB

in the Yorkshire
Rhubarb Triangle
it grows
by candlelight

in the ancient
rhubarb sheds
it is forever
night

scientists
have discovered
that twenty
minutes cooking

could avoid
the painful need
for the cancer
scanner booking

it’s lucky
rhubarb crumble
is a culinary
delight

and these
simple stalks
could help
with the fight

against
the hideous
disease, affecting
too many

a few
sticks of rhubarb
are worth
every penny

The Man Who Planted Trees

2010-02-26T09:38:00.050Z

An unusual photo of York Minster, taken from the west, showing many trees

There always seems to be talk of climate change these days, despite the snow, despite the falling snow, and I am always turned-off by the scientific certainty that will allow no other views on this important issue. I know there is something wrong when cuddly Doctor David Bellamy is shunned by the research community for daring to raise doubts about our effect on the natural world.

Usually, the focus is on factory pollution or vehicle pollution of the atmosphere, which does need to be addressed, but perhaps the most important change we have seen in the last few hundred years is the de-forestation of the planet. This could be reversed with a programme led by the United Nations to ensure that all countries each plant millions and millions of trees, or implement other measures relevant to their particular environment - trees might not thrive in the Sahara or at the North Pole ! There are already many good initiatives, though it's slightly depressing that a sign on the M1 motorway somewhere near Sheffield reads: You are now entering the National Forest.......yes, on a bloody motorway !

I once worked on the construction of the York-Selby cycle route on the disused railway track; one day we were ripping-up trees and vegetation to create an access point, and were harangued by a woman walker for destroying the countryside. It was quite satisfying to reply that we were actually planting 12,000 trees, at which point the lady went very red and wandered off. Her concern was fully justified, but it was good to be involved in a project enhancing the environment.

In Jean Giono's classic short story: The Man Who Planted Trees, the issue of our planet's de-forestation is addressed through the heroic actions of one shepherd in the lower Alps who devotes his entire life to creating a forest, despite the wars and rapid industrialisation elsewhere........he just goes on planting trees day after day, with no thanks from anybody, and not expecting any thanks. We certainly need to implement sustainable forms of energy, production and transport, to have a more open climate change debate that allows contrary views, and to plant/re-plant billions of trees across the globe - in appropriate places.

Footbridge, amidst lush vegetation, not far from our village

(Words used in the first paragraph: 'despite the snow, despite the falling snow' - taken from a Robert Graves poem, which neatly describes this winter)

The Great 1986 Balloon Race

2010-02-18T08:42:00.047Z

The Deep, Hull, where you can see lots of colourful fish

We went over to the port of Hull earlier in the week - luckily we had free tickets for The Deep, otherwise it's thirty pounds for a family of four. The experience is based around a vast vertical aquarium - you climb or go by lift to the top, and then descend while looking at so much colourful marine life, mostly not found in the Hull area. Still, it's well worth a visit, though perhaps better outside school half-term; the only thing lacking is a mini-submarine to take visitors into the depths of the massive fish tank. Hull of course prospered on the basis of its links with the sea, but as my mum was born in nearby Grimsby/Cleethorpes I have to say that Grimsby was the more important fishing port.

In the shabby-fascinating city centre the young lad was very excited to see they were giving away free balloons; it reminded me of my involvement in a balloon extravaganza back in the 1980s, which took place in the enormous Roundhay Park in Leeds. On that occasion people were releasing balloons for charity with tags attached to the strings - the finder was supposed to send these tags back and win a prize - furthest away from the start wins !

Some of the balloons were flying beyond the confines of the park, but most were landing within a very short distance, so I grabbed one of the tags. It was just before a trip to New York in 1986, which gave me a slightly mischievous idea - I was not interested in winning a prize, only creating an apparent miracle by taking the tag with me to America and posting it back to the event organisers.

I took a pre-addressed envelope to the Big Apple and included a short note with the returning tag to say I'd found it on a beach near Manhattan and to please give the prize to somebody else - after all it would be very costly to post a gigantic soft toy (or whatever it was) from England to America. What fascinated me was the idea of creating a small miracle - how the hell could a fragile balloon make it all the way across the Atlantic, against prevailing weather systems ? Unless it went the other way round the globe.....

Perhaps the recipients in Leeds guessed immediately how the 'miracle' had happened, but I prefer to think of all the open-mouthed little Scouts/Guides/Brownies who held the charity event; I hope this blog entry hasn't shattered their belief in the miraculous - sometimes these things just need a little help to happen. I would really like it if one of these people from Leeds can complete the story - did the envelope even arrive back from America ? Please leave a comment. Only genuine former balloon racers please !

Hull city centre, near the famous public toilets (known for their architectural brilliance)

Judy Blue Eyes

2010-02-12T09:20:00.030Z

We were lucky to escape our ice-gripped Yorkshire Wolds village on Monday night to witness a musical legend perform at The Duchess in York. The venue is in the cellar of perhaps the ugliest building of our fair city - The Stonebow - built in 1960s concrete, when love and peace was clearly happening elsewhere. Not really the ideal venue for seventy year-old Judy Collins to perform, but she still has the unique ability to transport listeners to another place with her remarkable voice.

Many of those gathered were probably in their prime during the sixties, but even the younger members of the audience, including the bar staff, were applauding enthusiastically. Her performance was in the form of a life story with plenty of humour, from birth in 1939, early exposure to classical piano, discovery of contemporary music on the radio, and blossoming into the musical and social revolution of 1960s America, mixing with people like Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Stephen Stills and just about everybody else associated with the music and arts scene.

Judy is performing at Glastonbury in the summer, which (if dry) will be a much more inspiring experience than North Yorkshire in February; though she did pay tribute to the beauty of our ancient city. Along with all the musical success in her life there has been tragedy - her book Sanity and Grace is an account of her son's suicide and how it has been possible to survive the aftermath of such a terrible event.

As we returned to our small village community from the concert it was snowing lightly, but it's strange how such live events can lift your spirit and make you forget the appalling weather and other problems for a short while. It was fascinating to hear her stories from another time, particularly that brief period in the sixties when it seemed beauty and love could triumph over the cold reality of conflict and our obsession with material things.

A very peculiar festival

2010-02-05T09:19:00.048Z

The lure of the sea is always strong as we live less than thirty miles from the Yorkshire Coast, and it was particularly pleasurable to follow the main road from Pickering to Whitby last Sunday because of all the wonderful shapes carved in the snowdrifts by the bitter winds on the desolate moorland road. I know that one of my nicer village neighbours who works at the Fylingdales 'defence' establishment on the high moors has been sent home early several times this winter - if able to reach the site at all. When I was a kid we used to enjoy seeing the three giant golf balls that sat bizarrely amidst the sheep and heather, though now it 's one rather dull structure - a kind of blunted pyramid; but like an iceberg, there is much more of the facility hiding beneath the surface -we can only speculate at the games that are played down there !

On the town beach beneath the cliff-top church and abbey, where vampires are always seen, there had been some kind of strange event, because there were still many flags and primitive wooden structures remaining - surely they couldn't have survived from the winter solstice more than a month ago, yet it appeared to be some kind of 'new age' celebration that had gone on. As we looked out to sea there were some rather large waves rolling towards the calm harbour; and there have been warnings on the radio this week about the dangerous practice of 'wave-dodging.' This is particularly popular on the Marine Drive at Scarborough, and several people have lost their lives as they try to get close to the big waves, but are then pulled into the freezing, stormy waters by the chill hands of the North Sea.

With it being such a very cold day it was tempting to find sustenance at the pie and mash cafe, but we opted for another place serving the traditional English breakfast. I don't know why they include black pudding, because I'm fairly sure most non-vegetarians would rather have another rasher of bacon than the weird circle of blackness that often appears on the plate. I did eat mine, but the young lad could not be persuaded.......a little something for the birds. I've looked in my Readers Digest Birds of Britain given to me by a very tall lass back in 1982, but remain uncertain which breed the birds in the picture below are - please leave a comment if you know the answer ! They appear to be fairly young, and reluctant to leave the safety of the harbour wall.

An urgent telegram from nowhere

2010-01-29T10:48:00.037Z

......IT'S TRYING TO SNOW......

......WIND BITTERLY COLD......

...PLEASE SEND SUPPLIES....

.......YORKSHIRE WOLDS NOT THAT BIG......YOU CAN FIND ME......

...CAN'T REMEMBER POSTCODE !!! DO WE HAVE ONE ?

Yes, it has unexpectedly started snowing again, but I don't think it will amount to much; a bit the like the current Iraq inquiry starring former Prime Minister Blair. Do we really need an expensive 'toothless' investigation to confirm that the war was started on the basis of lies and against the will of almost the entire International community ?

We have also been told, rather depressingly, this week that the gap between rich and poor in the UK has not closed in the last forty years ! We have a former Eton chappie leading our capital city; and a former Eton chappie will be the next Prime Minister, barring any scandal - did David Cameron really sleep with comedian Alan Carr ? Or was it Stephen Fry ?

Is there any hope of real progress in the United Kingdom ? Not until I see Peter Kay or Johnny Vegas as Prime Minister - we need a solid northern lad with real common sense to lead our great nation - maybe both the Hairy Bikers !

TWO POSITIVE NOTES:

1. It is getting a little bit lighter in the evenings.

2. Our young lad was awarded a Bank of Respect commendation at primary school for 'sweeping-up spilt raisins.'

(Spilt raisins is possibly a polite description of sheep droppings - the beasts do wander into class now and then)

The village Old Chapel (now a home) not to be confused with the Methodist Schoolroom

The Sunday Paperman Is Missing

2010-01-22T09:19:00.036Z

As it is some years since we had a shop and Post Office in this village of a few hundred souls, we must rely on cars to reach nearby towns, or the hardy folk who deliver various products to the community, which now of course includes the major supermarkets - though some of these retail giants were slow to reach rural areas. There is a van with general provisions, a van containing meat, the daily visit from the milkman, and every third Thursday the indispensable mobile library.

For many years there has been a bizarre system of leaving a note with an established customer if you wanted a Sunday paper - no proper contact details with the mysterious Sunday paperman have ever been available. For a long time we have reliably been receiving our Observer - good horoscopes - until this recent episode of foul winter weather. I expected the chap, who I've never met, would return to duties last weekend as most of the snow has disappeared, except on the high Wolds, but he hasn't, which means we have been four weeks without our weekly insight into highbrow culture and news.

As last Sunday felt fairly tropical after all the snow and ice I actually took my beloved Benelli Velvet scooter from the garage and rode the six miles into Malton to buy a bloody newspaper - actually the News of the World - sometimes you just fancy some junk. We have no way of knowing if the paperman is dead, ill, or more likely fed-up with all the dark morning adventures into a rural wilderness. He did manage to collect all his Christmas tips though, including my five-pound note, which shows the man is not entirely a fool. I do hope nothing serious has happened, and perhaps eventually some news will filter through on the grapevine - not via a Sunday newspaper.

We can ill-afford to lose any of these small services in a rural location, though I believe it is possible to get a non-Sunday paper from the enterprising milkman, who will also provide other products like spuds, juice and yoghurt. Some villages have been lucky to retain a local shop, and I believe others even have a regular bus service ! As I was born in a suburban location I feel destiny will return me eventually, like a bloated salmon, to the outskirts of ancient York, or similar place that actually has the facilities we all need.

We can always dream of warmer days

Crawling

2010-01-15T09:31:00.053Z

One of the most striking images this week was people crawling across the road in West Yorkshire because they were unable to walk on the lethal black ice - for some reason it reminded me of a vampire steadily climbing the outside of a Transylvanian castle, except this was on the horizontal. These particular conditions can be far more dangerous than drifts of snow, and I knew it was serious when my teenage daughter stepped outside and immediately returned to the house demanding the path was salted - not normally the kind of request you expect from a girl entirely obsessed by Beyonce Knowles, who has precious little awareness of social responsibility.

I annoyed my lady by using the last of the table salt, but I just cannot bear the idea of anyone cracking their head on our stone flags, unless it's a dear neighbour, who really should be employed on a Community Payback team spreading grit rather than malicious gossip - a significant problem amongst the women of a small community. As I've mentioned before, men would much rather tinker with a car engine, put up a shelf, or go and play football, it's usually the females with nothing better to do who indulge in all this petty squabbling and defamation of character.

I've just started reading a book about hard-hitting BBC presenter John Humphrys building a house in an idyllic Greek location, and all the problems involved with a 'strange' culture, builders and bureaucracy; he also mentions buying a remote Welsh farm many years ago, and being approached by a very nice local chap who had been shunned by the local community because he was 'living in sin.' The poor Welshman said he would fully understand if Mr Humphrys did not want to converse with him, but felt he should introduce himself as a close neighbour. Thankfully, the BBC reporter and presenter is not the type to indulge in such petty prejudice; yet the story really hit home with me - how certain elements of a village can turn against another human being because of widespread small-mindedness.

We appear to be experiencing a slow thaw at present, though this will not be the case in the more extreme, and extremely beautiful, parts of North Yorkshire, like heavenly Swaledale where mountain rescue teams are visiting remote hamlets with essential supplies. There is crazy talk of 6 degrees Celsius here on Sunday, which will feel like a summer's day in Greece after all this white stuff and black ice. I was relieved that my lady finally arrived back from the USA on Saturday; some of my fears about running out of food and being trapped in the Yorkshire Wolds were real, but as ever most are the product of an over active neurosis gland !

Primitive Methodist School Room (erected 1910) in the village

Nine and a half Weeks

2010-01-08T13:24:00.070Z

Main Street of the village

The local radio station have been inviting older folk to ring in with their tales of harsh winters of the past, perhaps to demonstrate how lucky we are in 2010, and that we shouldn't make a fuss as it gets more and more difficult to go about our daily business. One old guy from Farndale, famous for its explosion of spring daffodils, got talking about 1947 - when his family, including 14 children, were cut-off for nine weeks (it might have been a few days more). The disc jockey asked how they managed in terms of food and other supplies, because in those days Tesco and Asda were just a beautiful dream. Being mostly a farming community there were always good stocks of meat and veg. and also plenty of flour for non-stop baking by the overworked lady of the house.

It's a shame my dad isn't around any more because he was always banging-on about how bad 1947 was, and how people were skating on the River Ouse through York. Another bad winter was a few months after I was born - 62/63 - when nappies washed by hand would just freeze on the line; I suppose they warmed-up after a few hours on my tender backside. We've all become far too soft these days, bursting into tears if the local convenience store has no more Pot Noodle.

As the United Kingdom gradually runs out of grit salt (mixed with molasses to stick better !) many are complaining that our elaborate road and path network is not being treated properly. Somebody phoned Radio York from Germany to say that it was a legal requirement in Deutschland to clear one's footpath and the area close to the house; but in England we cannot risk such clearance of snow for fear of an accident and the terrible legal consequences to follow.

In our small Yorkshire Wolds community at least there has been no power cut this winter season, though Paul Hudson our local TV weather star (he even has his own blog !) is telling us the wind may well strengthen over the weekend causing severe drifts. Personally, I have forgotten what green fields and blue sky look like, and we have had even more heavy snow today. More seriously, I have run out of red wine and have absolutely no stocks of whisky in the house; we are also down to the last bag of logs and coal, so if my lady doesn't make it back from the USA tomorrow......it doesn't bear thinking about.

It was also supposed to be back to formal education this week, but our young lad has only attended the village school once - it was closed the other three days of a four-day week, as many of the staff don't live locally, and some of the children are in very, very remote and strange locations. Once again local radio comes into its own with a long list of school closures and the many other small events that are just too dangerous to proceed with, like Scottish country dancing in the community centre. It has been heartening to see the increased willingness of people to help one another in the icy conditions, a kind of World War Two spirit breaks out, without any need for all that silly fighting.

The weather must be very bad, because they also announced yesterday that Dalby Forest had closed, which is terrible news for all the squirrels and other wildlife. I am now making a special Internet plea for my lady to get back on time from America tomorrow - not so much because I'm missing her, but we need to get to Morrison's in Malton for essential supplies, and she took the only means of transport.

A view across the village towards the east, showing rare blue skies

New Year

2010-01-02T09:08:00.032Z

If it had been very wet over this festive period it would have been good weather for ducks, but as we've had relentless snow and ice, with temperatures as low as minus 13 Celsius, it can officially be declared as good weather for Tibetan Terriers, like our dog Bertie, which means 'The Unenlightened but Joyous One.' As he's directly descended from canines of the Himalayas I'm convinced there must be a 'genetic memory' of the snowy peaks of Tibet, which is triggered every time he launches himself into the modest drifts of snow on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds.

Following further snow yesterday afternoon we have a complete white blanket again, and the main road towards York has an undisturbed layer of snow and ice, which will be a challenge for anyone without a Land Rover or similar beast. I won't be leaving the village anyway as my lady has taken our only car and buggered-off to the USA for a week on one of these so-called 'working' museum courier trips - we are trapped for seven days - even the very occasional buses will probably be cancelled due to icy conditions.

Radio York this morning is promising more heavy snow showers in the afternoon, so I must assemble some kind of fire out of logs and coal, which will bring a true feeling of warmth that you just don't get from central heating. Many villagers will not attempt the return to work until Monday morning, which might be a horrible shock after so long cocooned in a Yorkshire Wolds igloo.

Apart from the weather, our local radio is very excited about our non-league side York City facing Premier League Stoke City in the FA Cup Third Round today. I'm not sure what the weather conditions are in the Potteries, or if local lad Robbie Williams will be supporting the 'big fish' against the 'minnows.' An army of four thousand Yorkshire folk are heading for a battle that will almost certainly be lost; but I was at York City's ground when they progressed in the League Cup against Cantona and Giggs..........what a dream it would be to get Man Utd in the fourth round this time.........

My home village - Osbaldwick, on the outskirts of York

Shortest

2009-12-14T09:12:00.050Z

I always try to cheer myself up with the same thought at this darkest time of year - the 21st December is the shortest day in England, which means we will have turned the corner and are heading very slowly back to spring and summer. The winter solstice will go unnoticed by most, yet celebrated by druids and others who value the rhythms of the natural world; as the poet says:

the shortest day

gave me the longest

night with you

Christianity and other religions are really quite new on the scene in terms of our long evolution; humans have always felt the need to generate light (we don't have any street lighting out here) and warmth in the depths of winter, and this is how I view the many decorative efforts of fellow villagers, particularly the fashion to create elaborate light displays on the outside of houses.

The Village is taking a festive break from blogging until early 2010, so I can concentrate on challenging the stiff local competition to have the best glitter and light display (we haven't even got a tree yet). Warm wishes to all for a peaceful and prosperous time as the days gradually lengthen - after Monday the 21st.

(Above) The 'enchanted wood' at the Stockeld Park winter experience, near Wetherby

The true meaning of Christmas

2009-12-07T09:14:00.048Z

Thanks to Vinogirl I am reminded of the wonderful actor and human being Alastair Sim, most famous for his film appearances as Scrooge and cross-dressing in the St. Trinian's pictures. He died more than thirty years ago, but his remarkable personality lives on as we watch every year the 1951 version of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, which surely beats any other 'more colourful' interpretation that has appeared in recent years.

My lady almost didn't make the village school production of The Peace Child last week, which didn't even have the baby Jesus in it ! I'm not a religious person, but still expect to see something resembling a stable and a donkey at this special time. Because of continued heavy rain she was unable to cross the Derwent at our usual Buttercrambe bridge, which meant a diversion via the delightful hamlet of Bossall (lovely church dating from 1180) to Howsham bridge, but this route was also flooded. It was then necessary for my stressed lady to take an even longer journey via the A64 to Scarborough, turning off to the higher bridge by the ruins of Kirkham Abbey - fortunately this road is well above the swollen brown waters of the Derwent.

The many owls surrounding our small, Yorkshire Wolds village seem especially loud on these long, frosty nights; I know there have been substantial efforts to support the local owl populations from a number of kindly folk, including our famous wildlife artist Robert E Fuller, who lives on a lonely farm over towards the unique high Wolds village of Thixendale, where the Cross Keys pub is always worth a visit, because unlike many local beer houses it actually opens every lunchtime throughout the year - beware the slightly scary landlord !

I have already received the very moving card that comes every Christmas, and is simply signed: 'From, Sunday Paperman.' This is a deliberate attempt by the chap who delivers our Sunday paper to make an early appeal for a festive present in the form of a cash donation - perhaps somewhat cheekily, but he does deserve something for driving all the way from York, or somewhere in that general direction, in all kinds of cruel weather.

Hard Frost

2009-12-01T09:40:00.036Z

It's good to wake up to the first hard frost of the season, and blue skies, when it eventually got light, after all the appalling rain in November - it is the first of December, and it actually feels like a real winter morning in northern England. There is no wind, and the smoke is gently rising above the red roofs of the village from many coal and log fires; almost idyllic, if it wasn't for some of the neighbours !

Fortunately, we haven't had much to do with a few strange neighbours, in recent months, though I'm worried that with Christmas coming up and all the extra parcels, inevitably some evil woman will take ours if we're not around, which then means a visit to her dark door for the ungracious ceremony of her handing over the brown package. I could send one of the kids round, as she does to ours, but that is very cowardly, and I'm determined to make any such person uncomfortable by going in person - the Christmas spirit is alive and well in our small community.

The window at Monk Bar Model Shop, York

My lady has warned me that yesterday's payday compelled her to join millions of others in the online gift-buying madness that will keep Royal Mail and many other couriers extremely busy in the coming weeks. Maybe folk aren't sending so many letters these days, but there's plenty of delivery business from all the stuff ordered on the Internet, which simply didn't happen when I was a lad.

I am not looking forward to tomorrow night's village school production of the Peace Child, featuring our young lad, which seems ridiculously early for a Christmas play, but they have decided to foolishly have different shows for different years to avoid everyone cramming into the smallish, high-ceilinged school hall - wasn't that part of the fun ? All squashed in together like very polite, English sardines.

I have just noticed that virtually everyone has scraped the ice off their car windscreens and gone shopping; they have clearly started to panic now we have actually entered December, and there are rumours of a sudden rush on sprouts at Netto in Malton. It makes me glad that I cannot drive, and it's too cold to take my Benelli Velvet 250 scooter from the garage; though I could really fancy stew and dumplings at the wonderfully unadorned cafe on Malton railway station.

No joke, and a joke

2009-11-25T09:49:00.049Z

This was the scene of 'routine' flooding in the city centre of York at the end of last week, events those at the Kings Arms and other riverside properties are all too familiar with. It's not uncommon for us to be unable to reach our nearest small city because the modest Derwent has flooded at Buttercrambe, Howsham, and until flood defences were improved, Stamford Bridge and Malton.

It has been the Derwent and other rivers in Cumbria that have been dominating the news this week, particularly Cockermouth (birthplace of Wordsworth) that witnessed terrifying levels of flooding, and destruction of property and bridges. The highest ever-recorded rainfall in the area has cut-off many people from shops and other essential amenities, which will take a very long time to properly recover from; and can it be prevented from happening again ? This kind of occurrence is perhaps on a small scale in comparison with places like Bangladesh, where people are facing a daily battle against the destruction brought by flooding, but many individuals in Cumbria will still struggle for many months and years to rebuild their lives.

The only solution to this and other serious setbacks is for people to get together; and maybe even share some laughter over a few bottles of wine, beer, or the miraculously restorative cup of tea. We had an informal family gathering at the weekend, and my brother shared a not too politically correct joke that appeared to go down well:

A man was walking past a 'mental' hospital, and became aware of some chanting from behind the tall wooden fence:

'Thirteen ! Thirteen ! Thirteen !'

Nervous, but also intrigued, he peered through a small gap in the fence, only to be poked in the eye with a sharp stick. Immediately, the chanting changed, accompanied by some laughter:

'Fourteen ! Fourteen ! Fourteen !'

A lesson in.........Beyonce

2009-11-19T09:16:00.039Z

Our teenage daughter recently won some tickets in a sugar free gum competition to see the musical goddess Beyonce at the O2 arena in London - all tickets in the gigantic arena were free to her passionate audience of Trident gum-chewing winners. This meant we had to fill in a school form to apply for one day off for our lass - the reply was as follows:

'I acknowledge receipt of your request to withdraw H. from school for one day on Monday 16 November 2009.

I must express my concern about the negative impact absence can have on the educational progress of the child. This absence alone will represent 0.5% of her attendance this year.

I will authorise the absence on this occasion but would ask that you consider the effect of any future requests most carefully.'

As our daughter frequently comments: 'Get over yourself !' Are our most valuable lessons learned behind a desk ?

This kind of response is of course to be expected in the current climate of fear, when it's virtually illegal to take your child out during term time. This is a highly questionable approach when you consider many children are taken on 'educational' school skiing holidays and visits to German Christmas markets (etc. etc.) at this time of year.

It is even more ridiculous when ninety-nine per cent of the curriculum will be irrelevant to a child in their adult life; only good writing, reading, and basic mathematic ability are really required later on. To get a decent job it is of course necessary to pursue the endless paper chase for 'essential' qualifications, because only these can satisfy the cold-blooded employer more interested in exams than true worth.

Our daughter really enjoyed the mercurial performance of Beyonce, her husband (Jay-Z), and Kanye West; I thought the guy (pictured below) was dead......

I have seen the future

2009-11-12T09:38:00.041Z

This is the optimistic painting on the wall outside the cycle shop in our nearby town of Malton; unlike York and the Vale of York, a short distance away, this area sometimes called Ryedale is by no means flat, and the usual cyclists you see are enthusiasts from real cycling clubs - seventy year-old men and women with thighs and calves like iron. Yesterday's blue skies prompted me to take the (motorised) bicycle from the garage and ride into town for battered sausage and chips; I am still very much using the indoor fitness bike, but am not so brave as these ageing outdoor pedallers.

When I 'worked' at the Yorkshire Museum in York many years ago, my beloved Falcon Black Diamond pushbike was stolen from outside the staff entrance; bike theft in York was/is big business despite the invention of ever stronger locks. It is relatively small and flat cities like York, Cambridge and Amsterdam that truly succeed as cycling hubs, though many folk will revert to the comfort and safety of four wheels during the long, chilly winter.

The main thing that comes to mind about my period at the Yorkshire Museum was the presence of one-eyed Mark the Shark - not sure if he was a cyclist - limited vision might increase the risk in an already dangerous pursuit. The Monsters of the Deep exhibition was proving very popular at the time, and it was Mark the Shark's job to look after the sharks and other marine wildlife. There wasn't room for a Great White or Tiger Shark, just fairly small specimens that still looked incredibly menacing in the exhibition's dark and dank interior.

I was struck by a quote in Sunday's Observer newspaper suggesting pedalling bikes isn't the most crucial aspect of our lives, taken from the Letters of Ted Hughes - the dead poet from the spectacular Calder Valley, west of Halifax (where cycling must be virtually impossible). It was in a letter to his son, who committed suicide many years later, a long time after the death of his mother Sylvia Plath:

'The only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough.....didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.'

Remember, Remember

2009-11-07T08:11:00.004Z

Remember, remember 7th of November
we went for some fun on Wold Hill
baked spuds, toffee apples, famous mulled wine
fireworks and fire, the weather was fine
all villagers having their fill
Each, and all had bold intent
burning Guy was clearly meant
and to see the powder explode
over lonely Wold Hill road
By heavenly luck no child was hurt
though a sparkler did singe Old Bert
Holloa boys, holloa girls, don't make a claim
Holloa boys, holloa girls, it's only a game.

Sea To The West

2009-11-01T08:57:00.067Z

In Yorkshire, our usual experience is visiting the brown or grey North Sea to the east, but as in the little-known volume of poems by the late Cumbrian author Norman Nicholson (Sea To The West), the recent experience was quite the opposite; though as many will know you often don't see the sea across the vast expanse of Southport sand and salt marsh.

Southport's very long pier inc. working tram track

Perhaps the most remarkable feature of our visit was that for the first time in forty-seven years I met a person (not in my immediate family) who had the same surname as myself ! This suggests I have a really unusual surname (a closely guarded secret), but it's only that most of my clan appear to be in the Kent area - a painful admission for a proud Northerner. It felt like a really significant moment of insight into one's true heritage, and the other party seemed equally surprised to find this dubious common ground.

Anthony Gormley sculpture

I was most excited, and unexpectedly moved, by our visit to the Anthony Gormley sculptures on the beach at Crosby, north of Liverpool. The many metal statues stare out across the Mersey estuary and the sea as a poetic symbol of all those who yearn for a better life elsewhere, and also the sense of loss that is part of the leaving process. The never-ending cycle of the tides, covering and uncovering all these simple figures, gives another powerful dimension to this unique and peculiarly magnetic attraction.

You get a big impression of the Liverpool area's involvement in trade, emigration, immigration, and slavery from the many surviving shipping warehouses that are much more widespread than just the touristy Albert Dock. It's many years since I've visited the city, and was previously sceptical about its City of Culture status, but found an incredibly vibrant and fascinating urban landscape to explore, helped by wonderful, warm sunshine.

Liverpool - Catholic Cathedral

We couldn't visit the area without a trip to Blackpool, mainly to see the miles of splendid illuminations along the sea front. It took us about two hours to progress through the evening traffic chaos, and again we were blessed with remarkably warm and dry conditions for the end of October. The resort is not for the faint-hearted, and is very different to the genteel atmosphere of Southport, yet it combines all that is familiar about the British seaside town - fish and chips, donkeys, cheap hotels, piers, crude entertainment, and a chilly wind on the beach - even on an allegedly balmy day.

Blackpool Tower

This Week

2009-10-26T07:19:00.016Z

This week the Villager is away from the small village in the Yorkshire Wolds.

We are crossing the bleak natural barrier of The Pennines to stay in a resort between Liverpool and Blackpool..........don't ask me why........it wasn't my idea.........

Beer and Leaves

2009-10-21T09:05:00.031+01:00

This is a fantastic day to begin our village beer festival on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds because the weather has turned so wet and miserable, and it didn't get light until around nine this morning - no wonder some people choose to move to the Costa del Sunny. We can cheer ourselves on a range of real ale from one of the many fine micro-breweries that have emerged in recent decades; thanks to CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) and many enthusiasts we are no longer compelled to drink artificial products from multi-national brewers.

A recent announcement that the legendary Newcastle Brown Ale will no longer be brewed on Tyneside and will move to Tadcaster (not far from here) typifies the money-driven approach of the major players in the drinks industry. The small, beer town of Tadcaster may benefit with some extra jobs, but you might as well start producing all Sam Smith's and John Smith's (founded in Tadcaster) in London or Australia.......these big companies have no heart and soul.

We are lucky that our village pub is making constant efforts to prosper in these tough economic times; I heard the other day that 52 pubs are closing every week in England. Apart from our excellent primary school, this is one of the only community facilities left, and it would be unbearable to lose such a valuable meeting place - even for those who don't consume alcohol.

I'm sure if we did leave England for warmer and sunnier climes there are many joys that would be keenly missed, like kicking through multi-coloured autumn leaves, sitting round a real fire with a glass of winter ale, the easy availability of Marmite, and watching the very funny Benidorm on ITV1 on a Friday night.

Steam, Fish

2009-10-15T09:01:00.049+01:00

It's good to have a brief weekend escape from our small, Yorkshire Wolds village, and we're lucky to live so close to the North Sea coast, with a wide choice of seaside towns and smaller settlements. The promise of reliable blue skies drew us back to the picturesque port of Whitby, which sometimes resembles more of a historical theme park these days, yet still retains an undeniable charm amidst the constant flood of visitors.

The young lad wanted to play on the small beach opposite the fish dock and below the Abbey, and he soon found a playmate in the form of another young lad from our own village ! Even when we try to let go of our usual routine and worries it is not always possible to escape those from our peculiar inland community. It was a lovely afternoon though, if you could ignore sand blown in your face by a strong breeze, and the kids enjoyed expanding a large hole in the beach.

We lunched at the Humble Pie, and Mash cafe on the Abbey side of town, but not on the main tourist street leading towards the Abbey. It's a great place to go on a chilly day for old-fashioned pie, mash, peas and gravy, and they also supply vegetarian pies and gravy - all very tasty, accompanied by a strong mug of tea. The establishment has a World War Two theme, and music of that era plays pleasantly in the background, for those of the older generations anyway.

The nearby Whitby Bookshop inevitably had many vampire and horror stories prominently on display, and not just the locally-inspired Dracula; vampire tales seem to be more popular than ever at the moment, with the 'Twilight' series of books and films and the TV show True Blood now showing on our own Channel 4 after big success in the USA. I most admired the old spiral staircase in the bookshop; I'm not sure what the shop used to be in earlier times, maybe an outlet for unusual staircases.

As we wandered back to the car parked beyond the small railway station (with built-in curry house) a steam train was pulling-in on the single track; there is an ordinary rail service through the wonderful Esk Valley from Middlesborough, and also an increased number of trains travelling from Pickering on the North York Moors Railway all the way into Whitby itself, instead of terminating at Grosmont. The presence of steam perhaps adds to the overall feeling of being in a theme park, yet it does quicken the pulse and stir something in the soul.

Happy Birthday

2009-10-08T09:36:00.047+01:00

On this chilly autumn morning of brilliant blue skies on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds - my 47th birthday - I am savouring a bowl of delightful porridge and honey. Tuesday was the first day of substantial rain we've had in months, but the sun always shines on one's birthday ! Along with my overwhelming catalogue of presents - mainly bourbon and music, I have received a communication sent 'on behalf of the village committee.'

It sometimes feels that local Christians are the only folk doing anything round here, but at least the Church are good at marking the passing of the seasons, as with this latest harvest offering. Two of the people in our small cul-de-sac are real farm workers (!) who have spent the last few months virtually living out in the fields, or driving terrifyingly large tractors too fast down Main Street.

There is a child-friendly harvest festival service on Sunday morning, a performance by the Farndale Singers with supper afterwards on Monday evening, and a harvest auction at the pub - 'proceeds to village projects.' Maybe I could get some financing for this blog ! With all this vaguely religious activity it's a shame I'm not part of the flock (in any sense); suppose I'll have to stay in and watch Coronation Street instead, or listen to my new Gurrumul CD (Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu (born 1970) is a blind Indigenous Australian musician, who sings - so beautifully it can make you cry - in the Yolngu language).

I feel even more marooned than usual as my beloved Benelli Velvet 250 scooter is having exhaust repairs: 'it'll be 750 quid if your back box goes', service and MOT in the small town of Norton (joined to Malton) six miles away. I wanted to buy a new bike, but couldn't really justify the expense as for six months of the year it's not really motorcycling weather, unless you take advantage of the brief window of opportunity in the early afternoon on a sunny day, when it's a tiny bit warmer. I reluctantly had to spend 11 pounds on a taxi ride back to the village after leaving the scooter - no buses at all on a Monday !

A long, steady screw

2009-10-01T09:07:00.057+01:00

It's only 3.6 miles from our house to Howsham bridge over the Derwent, where a short walk scented with Himalayan balsam takes you to Howsham Mill, featured in the BBC Restoration series, yet we made our first visit on Sunday to the site that is still being actively restored. The Georgian watermill dates from 1755, and the Renewable Heritage Trust outline their aims as follows:

'1. Restoration of the Mill building as far as possible back to its original state externally, for use as an environmental study centre promoting renewable energy and local history and wildlife. It will also be available for use as a community venue for local people.

2. The reinstatement of the waterwheel will again harness the power of the river, but rather than driving millstones, this time will generate electricity.

It is the Trust’s aim to make the building totally self-sustaining for the 21st century using revenue from power sales to fund future restoration and conservation work at the site.

3. Preservation of the existing natural environment including protection of peripheral cover for otter. Development of a management plan which will allow increased public access to, and ensure the future maintenance of this unspoilt area of woodland.'

The last time I properly explored this area was about 25 years ago while nude bathing with a lesbian (maybe she just told me that so I'd maintain a respectful distance) friend below the weir; wild swimming is quite fashionable at the moment, but you need to be fully aware of any risks, like getting caught up in the abundant weed and drowning, injuring yourself when jumping in, or having your fingers bitten-off by a temperamental otter.

On the Mill side of the weir there is already in place a long, generating 'corkscrew' turning constantly and powerfully despite the low river flow due to lack of recent rain. I would love to see an otter or otters in the wild; but I recently discovered that these delightful creatures can pack a real punch, or bite, if mishandled, while watching wildlife presenter Terry Nutkins on TV who has lost a couple of fingers to their bone-crunching jaws.

There is plenty more wildlife to enjoy in this peaceful river location, like dragonflies the size of birds of prey, the elusive iridescent flash of a kingfisher, or unexpectedly large fish rising slowly to the surface. For some reason the Ordnance Survey maps I've seen don't show a path all the way to the Mill site, but there is a very good, official path taking you through the verdant flood meadows by this lovely meandering waterway.

The Butcher of Malton

2009-09-24T16:17:00.051+01:00

Despite the fact we have passed the equinox earlier this week - the twenty-four hour period of equal day and night when it can be a bit windy - I am still bravely utilising my Benelli Velvet 250 scooter to reach 'civilisation' even though the mornings have become distinctly chilly and autumnal on the edge of the Yorkshire Wolds. I decided to go to our nearest large settlement of Malton, six miles away, which once was a minor outpost of the Roman empire, and still remains in the shadow of nearby Eboracum (York).

A butcher's window in the Market Place with game strung-up outside reminded me what a strongly rural, carnivorous, and farming area this is, which is not particularly in line with my own world view - though I do consume meat. It is possible to be almost unaware of all this livestock activity when living in the countryside, until you suddenly come upon a blatant reminder in the form of dead creatures, a giant tractor, or a pack of hounds out for their morning constitutional.

To escape the brutality of earning a living from destroying the living, we are very lucky to still have a 2-screen cinema, considering Malton is only a small market town. As you would expect it's a much more civilised place than the giant multiplexes, and you're welcome to carry a pint of beer or glass of wine into the auditorium. I went there on Sunday to watch the film: Shorts, about a magic pebble that can grant wishes - very much for the young ones, and is constructed from several short episodes, giving the movie its name. This particular film I did not judge was in the same league as The Wizard of Oz......to put it politely; and it would be ridiculous to expect that I might have the opportunity to view an 'adult' offering - not until the brats leave home.

Back in the village our little beck is rather low as there's still been hardly any rain in this easterly location; it might have been bucketing down over in the Lake District for all I know, but here we must be content with our mostly dry chalk valleys, except for the many thousands of springs that still bubble to the surface despite the long periods without any precipitation.

Coast

2009-09-18T12:38:00.052+01:00

The early evening brought a few patches of blue to the Yorkshire skies that have been so leaden this week, following on from all the delightful weather that somehow felt like the end of summer. In a vain attempt to battle against the inevitable decline into autumn and winter we drove the forty-five minutes to Bridlington last night to experience the last hour of daylight over a calm sea.

There were few people around the harbour, but some cafes and pubs were bravely staying open despite the lack of customers; and a small group of men and women who had been drinking all day were swearing at each other in the street, while others queued for bingo. You're always tempted to have fish and chips at the seaside, and I saw a man carrying a massive portion with mushy peas smothered on top like a technicolour volcano, but somehow we resisted the lure of deep-fried nosh to experience the good value JD Wetherspoon pub curry night - proper English fayre !

In earlier months we would have had the pleasure of driving back through the empty Yorkshire Wolds and the village of Wetwang (good fish and chips) in late daylight, and I wasn't particularly relishing a dark and featureless journey home now. There are no doubt many pleasures to be had in an English autumn and winter, but they seem increasingly costly - most notably the simple necessity of effective heating.

It's interesting that in our community the only folk who have been able to switch to any kind of sustainable energy are those well-off enough to purchase such systems; some grants are available to poorer people on a strictly limited basis, but many are still forced to rely on expensive home heating oil delivered by lorry, and logs and coal to burn in the hearth.

As the nights grow ever darker we will not be inclined to make a spontaneous evening journey to the coast; I suppose we could always go to our own village pub for a meal, but then we'd have to contend with fellow villagers !

Blue Sky Racing

2009-09-13T09:29:00.008+01:00

This was the Tour of Britain cycle race near 'The Village' yesterday.......look at that blue sky !!!

One of the riders threw a used water bottle, which hit a woman spectator near us (shocked, but not injured), and our young lad now has this unique example of Italo-Croatian plastic (Italian cycling sponsors printed on the side, but made in Croatia) as a souvenir of our roadside vigil.

For more on the race go to : http://www.tourofbritain.co.uk/

And see the blog entry below.

Tour of Britain

2009-09-11T09:22:00.045+01:00

The largest free sporting event in Britain is coming very close to our Yorkshire Wolds village tomorrow, and you can almost sense the growing level of excitement - well, I have seen one poster about it in a house on Main Street. The professional cycle race is passing by our nearest 'major' crossroads, only a mile or so in the direction of York; I believe that this point has even been designated a King of the Mountains section, despite the fact it is no more than a very slight rise in ground.

Last year I persuaded my lady to take a day off from her labours, and we drove about twenty-five miles to watch the same event as it passed through the delights of Dalby Forest. It was really an excuse to go for a pub lunch and relive a childhood holiday I had on the edge of the forest, not far from the seaside resort of Scarborough. There were no package holidays to Spain or Greece for us in those days; the only time we got outside Yorkshire was to visit family in Grimsby, on the 'other side' of the mighty Humber river.

As my significant other is currently on a 'work' trip to Japan, which is really no more than an expensive holiday, I will remove my Benelli Velvet scooter from the garage and take the young lad to watch the thrill of professional cycling - further good weather has been guaranteed by Paul the Weatherman - our jolly, local TV expert. Tomorrow's first stage begins far away in the former steel town of Scunthorpe and eventually finishes on the outskirts of York - they decided it would be too disruptive to complete the race in the city centre of so many tiny, medieval streets.

The only trouble with an event like this is that the cyclists go by very quickly, and much of the pleasure is in the anticipation of excitement, which I suppose is not an uncommon experience in our lives. This is a small event in comparison with the Tour de France, yet it will still be viewed by hundreds of thousands of people around the country, if only for a few colourful and explosive seconds as well-lubricated, powerful thighs pedal furiously towards the finishing line.

Exciting Developments

2009-09-05T15:07:00.040+01:00

This talk (above) to be given in the village appears to be a must see, or must listen, and will perhaps include a slide show of peculiar images to shock our usually peaceful rural world. It will more likely be a sober discussion of some antique items discovered at the back of a drawer, like a Whitby jet brooch, a sepia photograph showing a farming scene, or a particularly valuable corset (worn only once).

A truly momentous change has recently occurred in our small community with the sealing of the old post box, set in the wall of the former shop/Post Office; the new free-standing, larger capacity version is only a few feet away. I'm not sure if the villagers who turned the shop into their home have demanded this change due to the excessive noise of letters dropping into the old box, or this always happens eventually when the building has a change of use. Perhaps it was just that the old one was rather small for our thriving community of a few hundred souls. It would be nice to still have the shop though; we continue to enjoy the lively pub, and school - and will grow to love the shiny new post box over the coming years.

Without doubt one of the most significant changes I can remember ! Though we have only been here nine years........just recent incomers, despite the fact I was born only fifteen miles away on the outskirts of York. Perhaps it's not wise to go off on holiday to Greece and risk missing-out on such things ? It's reassuring to return to plenty of grey and miserable weather though - better get the fire lit for winter.

Albania

2009-09-01T09:44:00.057+01:00

One of the most fascinating aspects of our recent holiday to the Greek island of Corfu was the day trip we took to the small country of Albania, only just over an hour away by boat. For those who find Greece rather chaotic in comparison to the UK, Albania is much more so - still struggling to emerge from the collapse of their socialist dictatorship in the early 1990s, and to bring a decent standard of living to many ordinary folk by adopting a parliamentary democracy, including a healthy sprinkling of corruption in the unique and peculiar mix.

Although it was easy enough to wander round on your own, they still seemed keen that people should take part in an organised trip, as if the repressive regime of Enver Hoxha was still in charge. We were lucky to have a young female guide able to give a humorous and informative insight into their way of life, warning that we might see many things that might not be understood, and that she did not even understand herself.

A friend who was travelling with us was so struck by this modest and delightful young woman that he largely ignored the major Roman remains we visited at Butrint, preferring to focus his zoom lens on her, and ask stupid questions about Albanian men dressing as women. She patiently explained that in the past it was more likely that women might have to live their entire lives as men in the absence of any male heirs to lead a family - a means of survival in a male-dominated society.

It was a shame we didn't have more time to explore, because despite some of the ugly built landscape of half-finished property and the shabby blocks of flats surviving from the years of socialist isolation, it was all somehow much more real and moving than the package holiday experience of Corfu, where you sometimes have to try really hard to find somewhere authentic and untouched by touristic development.

Albania certainly isn't unspoilt, yet it can capture the heart in an unexpected way; and I hope that eventually all its people will find more prosperous and happy lives, as memories of the centuries of hardship and struggle melt into the clear, blue, dolphin-friendly Ionian.

Holiday

2009-08-04T08:07:00.006+01:00

I will return to blogging (and 'real life') at the beginning of September....

Great Railway Journeys

2009-07-30T08:52:00.053+01:00

Because it was pissing down yesterday afternoon there were very few options in this large, mostly rural county of North Yorkshire; the brats get so easily bored in these long summer holidays. One of the only large indoor venues round here is the National Railway Museum in York, which remains remarkably free of admission charges, though any thrilling extras inevitably incur a significant cash loss for any punter escaping a wet July day. They promised a barbecue summer ! And we have had many dry and lovely days........until now.

Following significant pressure from the kids we first visited the recently re-opened Little Chef on the A64 between York and Malton, and were surprised to find no snails on the menu - after the recent intervention of celebrity chef Heston Blumenthal. The (not cheap) cheerful fayre did not seem vastly different from the old Little Chef, and was very quiet compared to the nearby drive-in fish and chip restaurant. If I had the money I'd open a chain of eateries called: Little Chief, with a picture of an American Indian, offering good value and vaguely healthy meals, and a free mini tepee.

Even though the Railway Museum in York is free you still have to approach the 'cash' desk on entry so they can try and sell you a guide or something, and only then do you get the nod to descend into the Great Hall of so many shiny locomotives. Our young lad was fairly excited, but our teenage daughter, inevitably, could see little to stimulate a palate used to excessive dollops of Beyonce and Katie Price.

I was pleased to see a small exhibition of photographs showing the diverse people that run India's vast railway network, which gave me the opportunity to relive memories from my own Indian train experience, when they still had quite a few steam locos in use, back in 1991. The magic of those sleeper trains is unforgettable, when you make an unexpected stop in the middle of nowhere, reclining in your bunk, listening to so many unfamiliar sounds coming out of the vast darkness beyond your simple compartment.

The Indian railway family is an extraordinary eco-system, where everyone has some small or large role to fulfil, from the powerful engine driver to the lowly and impoverished chap struggling to sell samosas through the window. It is so far removed from the orderly proceedings of our UK stations, or those in somewhere like Switzerland; yet it does maintain a remarkable order in the face of so much chaos - a logical and purposeful business, in a land of so much beauty and suffering.

Scary Numbers

2009-07-23T08:35:00.029+01:00

48.

118.

I have been rather alarmed this week by the numbers above - not the more common fear of the number 13, but those found on the BBC weather site, showing temperatures for the Greek island of Corfu. 48 Celsius and 118 Fahrenheit.

We're travelling to the island in a few weeks, when it might be even hotter; and as a fair-skinned person I find these high numbers very disturbing. We always used to visit Greece at the end of May-beginning of June when it's cooler and cheaper and less crowded, but since our daughter went to big school we're tied to the main holidays.

If any of us has a cold we might not even make it beyond Manchester Airport, because we'll be immediately identified as having Swine Flu and refused permission to travel. Considering several thousand folk die from 'ordinary' flu every winter in the UK, some of the reactions to the current 'pandemic' are quite hysterical. The situation may worsen as we approach the English winter, but for now a great deal more common sense needs to prevail.

Nonetheless, it will be great to escape this Yorkshire Wolds village for a few weeks, as it's already proving very difficult to keep the kids entertained, particularly if it's raining. Some families have already disappeared; and during the day this place seems more like a graveyard than ever.

One of our most exciting excursions this week has been to our village cemetery, located about fifteen minutes walk from all the houses; I sat with our young lad and dog, scoffing sultanas, drinking water, and surveying the Wolds countryside - and it was only 18 degrees Celsius !

Don't do it for very long

2009-07-12T17:17:00.037+01:00

I was in trouble with my lady last night for refusing to attend the annual village barbecue, which precedes the annual village fete that has taken place today; the idea is that you take your own meat to lob on the fire and any accompaniments, alcoholic or otherwise. So she wandered up to the school field with our young lad despite skies darkening rapidly from the west, and I stayed home with our daughter, relieved that I wouldn't have to interact with fellow villagers and get rained on.

There was a good excuse to miss the fete itself this afternoon, as we had to drive twenty-two miles to the delightful town of Helmsley to watch a film produced by our teenage lass about hot-air ballooning - something she's never tried, but a friend is an enthusiast. It's part of a project called Dreams 2012, which allows youngsters to record anything on film that interests them, releasing their creative talents in the gradual build-up to the London Olympics. The best thing about it was that no charge was involved - the primary consideration for any true Yorkshireman.

So we sat for thirty minutes or so in the pleasant surroundings of the Helmsley Arts Centre watching very short recordings about the joys of fishing, ghosts, dance, politics and floating over the English countryside in a large basket. I guess it's all part of some agreement with the International Olympic Committee that the nation's children can also be involved in the forthcoming sporting festival, as well as our elite athletes.

Afterwards, we crossed the small market town, which is a real tourist and bikers' hotspot of countless cafes, for more free events in the large Helmsley walled garden, including drumming, face-painting, crafts and story-telling in a tepee. There has been much restoration of the lovely garden in recent years, and it enjoys a spectacular setting next to the substantial ruins of Helmsley castle. Along with the many vibrantly-coloured flowers there are some grapevines planted outside, and also much more 'advanced' vines laden with fruit in the extensive glasshouse and cafe area - supplied by the owners of our most northerly commercial vineyard in England, so close to this very village !

I suppose it's sad in a way that we have not fully participated in our own community events this weekend, and welcome the chance to escape the few small-minded folk. It has re-enforced (for me) the idea of moving to a small town that actually has some facilities, like shops, cafes, an arts venue and even a heated, public outdoor swimming pool - as in pretty Helmsley.

I was struck by a comment in a Sunday newspaper recently by a current English philosophy professor, which said: 'Life is all about relationships. By all means sit cross-legged on top of a mountain occasionally. But don't do it for very long.' I feel I've been sitting far too long on that lonely mountain top - actually, these little-visited chalk Wolds of mostly empty fields and sky.

Velvet Revolutions

2009-07-06T09:17:00.041+01:00

All this dry and warm weather has been ideal for scootering around the Yorkshire Wolds on my Benelli Velvet 250 scooter. There's something joyous about riding the green lanes in only a t-shirt, which is not very good from a safety point of view - it would really hurt if you came off the bike - but I find it impossible to wear a jacket when it's over eighty degrees.

It's a relief that the temperatures have dropped quite a bit, because I find the really hot and humid weather rather oppressive; and like many areas we have also been 'enjoying' spectacular thunderstorms, washing all kinds of debris onto our country roads. Small shards of chalk can be a real pain as they have a tendency to insert themselves in motorcycle tyres, while those travelling in cars or tractors are blissfully unaware of such hazards.

I've been visiting a few churches, mainly because in many villages or hamlets it's the only thing you can do, now that lots of Post Offices, shops and pubs have closed their doors. I was reminded of the Philip Larkin poem we were forced to study at school, Church Going, which is very different from his more notorious verse that begins: 'They Fuck you up, your mum and dad.' Larkin was not a believer, yet he often found himself removing his bicycle clips and entering these holy places at times when nobody else was around - a chance for quiet reflection, even if you're not into God.

When I was a young man, and Philip Larkin was working at Hull University library, on the other side of the Wolds, I sent him a few poems I'd written and asked for his advice on getting published. He was kind enough to send a short reply, advising me to type-up six of my 'best' and send them off to a few small magazines. Now that I re-examine his remarkable Church Going poem without being compelled to do so by a teacher, I can appreciate what an extraordinary poet he was; though we don't really value poetry much in this country, except for Pam Ayres and the dead guy with a beard - more famous for his plays.

Saturday night's alright for biting

2009-07-01T08:55:00.003+01:00

It's fairly common in our local pubs for things to get a little lively at a weekend and even take a more sinister turn with episodes of glassing, gouging, punching and biting (and that's just the women). There are quite a few racing stables in this area, and for some reason little jockeys like to go on pub crawls with the intention of getting into a fight. The small stature of many of these chaps makes them feel there is a point to prove against the rest of the world that is often slightly taller and apparently more at ease with themselves.

From an early age I was included in a much more civilised Saturday night ritual, mainly because my dad was a big fan of red wine in the time before our giant supermarkets, when a decent bottle was not widely available to the ordinary punter. Our family didn't have much spare cash to throw around, yet he was a card-carrying member of The Wine Society, which sounds rather grand, but it just meant we had one of the cheaper cases delivered a couple of times a year. In those days you couldn't just pop to the local garage and get three basic wines for a tenner; the best one could hope for was some awful, syrupy German white that was supposed to be the height of sophistication, along with a hostess trolley.

Our bite did not take the form of chewing-off someone's ear lobe in a noisy bar, but involved something like a 'French stick' of white bread with some tasty cheese, and a small sip of red wine for the young 'uns. Usually, it would be accompanied by Match of the Day in the late sixties and early seventies, featuring the first long-haired footballing 'pop stars' like George Best and Rodney Marsh, displaying their intoxicating skills for the Saturday night viewer only recently converted from black and white television.

This weekly event became so ingrained in childhood memory that I still find it essential to repeat the bread, wine and cheese element every Saturday, almost like a religious ceremony including bread and wine, except for me it is more of a pagan ritual. I suppose it's fortunate that my childhood experience was a positive one that could echo through adult life, because if it had been otherwise I might have found myself scrapping jockeys in some rough alehouse. It's good to experience the simple pleasure of sharing food and drink in a convivial atmosphere from an early age, and even to have a small taste of the red vino.

The Herd

2009-06-24T12:33:00.030+01:00

It was shocking to hear the reports a few days ago from a distant part of this large, rural county that a middle-aged woman had been trampled to death by cattle as she walked along a public footpath with two dogs on leads. The lady was a vet, which presumably meant she had a greater understanding of animals, but this was little help as the creatures abandoned their customary placidity and attacked.

Many of us will have experienced the inquisitive and sometimes frightening approach of cattle in the countryside, and an aggravating factor can be the presence of dogs, particularly if calves are also around. Some farmers commenting on the recent episode said it is always best to let the dogs go in a stampede situation, because they are fast enough to escape anyway, and are probably the main focus of the herd's aggression.

I've had a couple of minor episodes of 'cattle rage', which have made me very wary of walking through their fields - one was a few years back in the delightful valley between this village and the next, when for no apparent reason (I was without a dog) their inquisitiveness began to gain sudden pace and I was forced to leap a barbed wire fence - no mean feat for a large chap. Another time I was walking with my lady in the fields near the delightful hamlet of Bolton Percy (good pint of Sam Smith's) not far from York, when we were chased by a small herd of black and white beasts. Again, a successful escape was made, followed by a rapid departure to the pub for a few stiff drinks.

I'm sure the terrible incident a few days ago will strike a chord with many who enjoy walking through England's green and sometimes unpleasant land. We can all find ourselves in unexpected situations of danger, which are perhaps even more likely in an urban situation - you might be mauled by a Silver Tiger !

I will leave for another day my passionate dislike for the herd mentality in humans, which these days is often whipped-up by TV, tabloids, and even the miraculous Internet.

Crow

2009-06-19T09:15:00.038+01:00

Taking our Tibetan Terrier into the field immediately behind our cul-de-sac of joy earlier this week, I was surprised to see a metal cage with a large black bird trapped inside. My first thought was that it must be somebody's pet, tamed from the wild, and now benefiting from some grazing in the open - if that's possible in a cage. I thought about a Turkish story I'd read, where people paid to release captive birds in the market, purely to see the creatures liberated. I had an urge to do the same, but instead followed my usual dog walking route in the opposite direction.

It was only later in the week that I came across one of our nicer neighbours, who explained they had been having some serious problems with a particular crow or crows. They had then called upon the services of the village mole catcher and general rural expert to try and solve the dilemma. It's getting light so early at this time of year that these dark, flying demons have for some reason been noisily making dawn attacks on the windows of our neighbour and damaging the seal round the glass.

The metal cage is supposed to humanely capture the carrion crows, and our friendly mole and crow catcher will then release them in another location. Our neighbour did not seem too sure if the strategy was working, and will perhaps have to mount a bird of prey model at the rear of their property to scare the naughty crows. As we are very close to the longest day, it will soon mean that our days are very slowly shortening, which will eventually cure the problem of such early raids, though not quickly enough to bring the elusive good night's sleep to our fellow villagers.

Though we are only a very short distance from this neighbour's property we have not had any avian attacks, only the dawn chorus at around four in the morning. We have had little to do with our dear neighbour either, since she reprimanded me for allegedly allowing our young lad to play in their garden during a period they were away from the village. It is possible most of the time just to pretend that our unpleasant immediate neighbours don't exist; they are however much more difficult to get rid of than lunatic crows.

Markenfield 2 - The Return to 1310

2009-06-15T09:27:00.043+01:00

After getting myself so worked-up about Markenfield Hall last week I forced my lady to drive us over there yesterday for the afternoon opening. It was another day of mostly lovely, sunny weather, which is always such a surprise in northern England, even in this warmer part of the year - less than a week to the longest day !

In the entrance hall to this mini moated 'castle' they actually had a big fire burning, which makes you wonder if these ancient properties ever get warm. The Great Hall on the first floor is a massive, high-ceilinged room that is now the library, and has won a prestigious award for its careful restoration. The adjacent chapel still holds regular Catholic and Anglican services, so this is perhaps a means of visiting when the hall isn't open to the public - if you're prepared to sit through a potentially dull sermon.

When we visited more than ten years ago I'd been able to carry our young daughter (now thirteen) onto the roof, but roof-walking now appears to be banned. It is of course the external features and moat that are most inspiring, and we walked a complete circuit, taking-in the delightful views across verdant North Yorkshire. Our young lad was most captivated by a dead rat that had one leg missing, but I suppose that's fairly typical of boys of that age. The moat did need cleaning, but you'd have to be a Member of Parliament to afford that, and all at the taxpayer's expense !

I like the idea of an angel carrying you off to heaven or watching over you (see above), but is that just for those fortunate enough to have lived in a moated manor house ? Or is the heavenly creature pointing out that God does not look kindly on threesomes in bed ?

Markenfield

2009-06-10T09:18:00.048+01:00

One of the most remarkable places you can visit in the large county of North Yorkshire is the relatively little-known Markenfield Hall near Ripon. It is only a short distance from Fountains Abbey and the Studley Park estate owned by the National Trust, yet in my opinion is much more extraordinary. It is only open to the public quite rarely, including later this month, but footpaths make it accessible, allowing you to at least view the wonderful exterior.

It is situated well away from the main road into Ripon, and on my last visit was only reachable by car (if unable to walk) along a lengthy, unmade track, which has perhaps helped to maintain its untouched charm. Far better to arrive on foot at this perfectly intact fortified manor house dating from the early fourteenth century, surrounded completely by a moat, patrolled by a pair of black swans.

The Abbey close by is a picturesque ruin, but somehow Markenfield has survived hundreds of years of war and peace, in a similar way to our great cathedrals, including the one at Ripon. It is only in recent years that Markenfield Hall has had any kind of commercial presence, and it is now even possible to get married there - it is hard to imagine a more romantic setting, the kind of environment to delight any film maker.

I don't think the small-scale moneymaking that contributes to renovation and maintenance can diminish the impact of this unique moated building - such a magical contrast to many of the disposable aspects of today's society, and the ugliness of much of our built environment. If you have even the smallest trace of romance, poetry, or sense of history, I would urge you to visit this place of extreme beauty and tranquillity. If you can, make the pilgrimage on foot, and be rewarded with an experience to truly nurture the soul.

I Love You

2009-06-05T09:01:00.035+01:00

The nearest shop to our small Yorkshire Wolds village is about six miles, which is not particularly convenient; our own shop/Post Office closed suddenly a few years ago. The battle for which one is actually closer is between a small Costcutter, and a larger Netto next to Malton railway station. When we are short of money, which seems to be much of the time these days, we tend to choose Netto for its no-nonsense bargains.

As a devotee of Marmite for over forty years I was excited a few weeks ago to see that Netto were selling-off the 'I Love You' Marmite variation, including champagne, issued for Valentine's Day a few months earlier. I was encouraged to buy a pot as it was half the price of normal Marmite, and expected it would be little different from the conventional variety.

Because my palate has been used to the original recipe of yeast extract for so long I found this new invention was rather horrible; presumably why so much was now being sold in the bargain basement. The fundamental flaw in their marketing strategy was that Marmite-lovers delight in the 'pure' Marmite recipe, therefore any change to this will inevitably bring disappointment to the millions of those addicted.

I'm sure there are many out there who find Marmite or similar products disgusting in any form, yet I simply cannot tire of this unique spread. When I was growing up in the 1960s it was distributed to children as a health supplement, which was a much cleverer business idea, because I have remained a big fan for all this time.

Inevitably, I have re-stocked with ordinary Marmite, and it says on the back of the jar: 'I don't think I'll ever write a poem as lovely as Marmite.' This might be a blow to our new female Poet Laureate, but perhaps she could have a stab at penning a verse about this national and international hero of savoury spreads.

The News From Corfu

2009-06-01T09:06:00.035+01:00

As we're travelling to the large Greek island of Corfu in the blazing heat of August we were interested to hear what a neighbour of my mum's made of their recent visit. Now it's virtually illegal to take your kids out of school during term time, holidays must be taken during the most expensive and hottest period, which can be just too much for pale English folk, yet the lust for an 'exotic' experience still burns strongly, like the unforgiving Mediterranean sun.

It was expected that these vague acquaintances would provide some suggestions on how to avoid the crowds, the best tavernas, most inspiring views, the clearest sea. Instead, one of their party became ill, which they thought was due to too much wine, uncooked food, or the ever-present sun. After tests at the large hospital (using free European Health Insurance Card) the initial diagnosis was that the poor chap had a brain tumour.

The small group were of course unable to experience the many joys of Corfu, spending time travelling to and from the hospital and worrying about the appalling news. I'm not sure what the outcome has been since - hopefully it will prove to be something that can be effectively treated; news will eventually filter back to us via my mother.

It would be really useful to know when one's time is up, and then you could safely blow all the savings on some remarkable experiences, but in most cases we cannot predict our own demise. I would find it very irritating to be told death was coming next week, after being ever so careful to preserve a modest financial safety net for the years to come.

Having already read Prospero's Cell by Lawrence Durrell, which provides vivid descriptions of the island before the Second World War, and well before mass tourism, I have now ordered My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. I'm sure many, many people have already enjoyed this book, and I'm surprised it has taken me so long to get around to it. Perhaps I shouldn't keep putting these things off, because you never know what might happen later today, or tomorrow.

Five Rise

2009-05-26T09:10:00.078+01:00

We escaped these small, empty chalk hills and the flat Vale of York yesterday, to experience the entirely different landscape of throbbing West Yorkshire, where you need at least a powered bicycle to negotiate some of the stiff hills. We had lunch in the tourist-saturated small town of Haworth, where virtually every cafe is named after some aspect of the Bronte literary empire. I'm sure Emily and siblings would be horrified by their 'village' in the 21st century, so swamped by trivial commercialism, but at least we have progressed beyond the horrors of that time, such as infant mortality and widespread grinding poverty.

There was an interesting experience to be had in the car park at the top of town, where a kindly lady offered us her ticket, which still had more than two hours left on it. We were immediately set upon by a young man, threatening that if we used this transferred ticket we'd be clamped, with a seventy-five pound release fee. It soon emerged that this was not a well-regulated Council car park, but an aggressively managed private facility ready to clamp and charge even if you accidentally allowed a wheel to stray beyond a specific bay. There was a heated argument going on with another family who were perhaps a few minutes late in returning, to find the dreaded yellow metal attached to their wheels. On looking around the compact parking area there were several unfortunate clamping victims of their ruthless tactics, which surely needs some equally aggressive intervention by the local authority to prevent this behaviour continuing.

After visiting a lonely (and windy) moor nearby to witness the majesty of many giant windmills generating 'free' power, we drove a few miles to the Leeds-Liverpool canal at Bingley, home of the spectacular Five Rise locks. Two narrowboats were making slow progress through the five massive locks, watched by a substantial number of Bank Holiday refugees, keen to get out from in front of the telly and connect with their local environment. In September 1982 I'd passed through these locks twice on a very long narrowboat, and learned the bitter lesson of not getting your nose too close to the front sluice, which will then start emptying onto your forward deck, followed by the living quarters filling with mucky water.

In the cloudy humidity of yesterday afternoon children and adults were caught-up in the simple fascination of water filling and emptying, and watching the boats progress so very slowly in comparison to noisy, shiny motor cars and trains in the valley below. The lock keeper directing and assisting the boaters through these obstacles must have carried-out the vigorous operations on this cliff of water many thousands of times, and seemed almost out of place in the world of today; he showed a certain degree of impatience with all the touristic activity, only wanting to fulfil the same simple duty that has been performed for well over two-hundred years, and with the minimum fuss.

How do the cows cling on ?

2009-05-20T09:29:00.009+01:00

Sometimes, when I look up from our village main street at the steep hill that dramatically rises to the east, it appears the few cattle are so high and about to fall off the edge of the Wolds........

HOW DO THE COWS CLING ON ?

how do the cows cling on ?
their teeth gripping the grass ?

how do the cows cling on ?
while expelling so much gas

how do the cows cling on ?
as the Wolds suddenly soar

how do the cows cling on ?
it’s against natural law

how do the cows cling on ?
by the steep road from York

how do the cows cling on ?
where the back roads fork

how do the cows cling on ?
their field is green and steep

how do the cows cling on ?
where springs will always weep

how do the cows cling on ?
they’re almost in the sky

how do the cows cling on ?
I’m wondering why

how do the cows cling on ?
I’m speculating now

how do the cows cling on ?
high on the village brow

Don't Vote

2009-05-17T09:10:00.048+01:00

A few weeks ago we received the official polling cards for the 4 June vote at our village Methodist schoolroom, which will have a selection of candidates for the European Parliament and County Council as well. As I have done all my adult life, I immediately shredded the small card and put it straight in the bin; I've never voted. This has nothing to do with current news stories about our elected members abusing their privileges, and neither is it because of indifference or laziness.

Some people always raise the argument that folk have died so we now have the freedom to make a mark once every few years; but that is precisely the problem - we are barely engaging with democracy at all if the only thing done is to go and vote occasionally - immediately passing on the responsibility to somebody else. For most people this then means they can forget about political life, until they are eventually surprised to read stories of greed and corruption in the Daily Telegraph.

My own refusal to vote is simply because I am a born idealist and dreamer, which means the very slight differences between Labour, Conservative, Liberal Democrat and National Front provides no real choice for someone believing in a MUCH fairer distribution of wealth, on a national and global scale; but most in our society are simply too selfish to allow this to happen - more interested in the colour of a new dishwasher, rather than people getting food parcels in Dundee.

It's not surprising that many young people don't engage with the process of voting, and if anything are more inclined towards direct action. As a youth I was very taken with the ideas of Marx and Lenin, who would doubtless have made much of the current worldwide financial collapse, yet any implementation of their manifesto has been no more successful than the boom and bust of capitalism.

So what are we left with ? Cleaning-up the rules regarding MPs expenses, tinkering with the system of global capital, which we know will spectacularly implode again in fifteen or twenty years time, and always hitting the poorest so very hard. Instead of voting it might be time we all considered taking more direct, peaceful action; don't bother putting a cross on a ballot paper - actually get off our arses on a regular basis and really get involved in the most important issues, like health, poverty, education, sustainable energy etc. Voting has merely become an excuse for doing nothing ourselves, and blaming our elected representatives when it all goes tits-up.

More excitement

2009-05-11T12:48:00.066+01:00

(Picture above shows the UK Eurovision Song Contest entrant Jade with Andrew Lloyd-Webber)

Living most of the time in a tiny Yorkshire village without even a shop can make it a challenge when faced with such thrills as attending a Wembley football final (we lost 2-0) and the prospect of watching THREE programmes to be broadcast this week by the BBC to celebrate the Eurovision Song Contest in Moscow - a treat for anyone who has a taste for bizarre nonsense in the musical arena, and access to digital or satellite TV (for the first two offerings).

The United Kingdom must surely do better this year because we have a song created by Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webber, who even visited Russian politician Vladimir Putin to secure some kind of positive opinion and support. I don't know how popular Andrew's stuff is in important voting countries like Russia, but we can't do much worse than in recent years.

It will be strange not to have the cheeky Irishman (Terry Wogan) presenting the main show this Saturday, but the BBC have replaced him with guess who ? Another cheeky Irishman, in the form of gay comedian and TV host Graham Norton. Our own dryly-amusing English presenter Paddy O'Connell is only good enough to commentate on the two semi-finals, as he was not actually born in Ireland, despite his name and ancestry. If only Larry Grayson was still alive ! A truly English camp comedian.

Some steps have been taken to prevent the kind of 'block voting' that caused poor Terry Wogan to get so upset and leave this particular job, but I will be very surprised if the UK get anywhere near the top of the leader board, because it ain't the 1960s anymore; hang-on, perhaps we could try Lulu or Cliff again.....

Even if I lived in another country and entitled to vote for our Jade's: My Time, I wouldn't, because I don't like Andrew Lloyd-Webber and all that musical theatre nonsense. This is surely an event that should not be all about the winning, but more about laughing at the idiosyncrasies of our foreign neighbours, and even at our dour selves.

We're the famous York City and we're off to We-m-b-l-ey !

2009-05-08T09:11:00.029+01:00

We're having an unusual family excursion to London this weekend because our local 'football' team have somehow made it to Wembley for the FA Trophy final against Stevenage. The Archbishop of York cannot make the match itself, but is spending tonight at the team hotel to bring inspiration from on high, which will be very much needed.

York City were very lucky to remain in the top-flight of non-league football this season; I only saw them once in this campaign, and the style of play was about as far removed from Manchester United or Brazil as you can get. Yet this event will bring together many thousands from our ancient city, including a very rare event these days - a meeting of myself and three siblings, in the spectacular surroundings of the new Wembley - the alleged home of football.

The fact that many non-football fans are making the long trip shows that these kinds of occasions are about much more than twenty-two men kicking around a glorified pig's bladder. People want to feel good about their town and tribe, and it's much better that this is done on the football pitch rather than fighting on the streets.

There's an excellent chance York City will get hammered, but we are bound to have a jolly time singing banal songs and stuffing our faces with expensive half-time snacks (I can't imagine Bovril being served at such a smart London venue). A win will bring untold benefits to our small northern city at this time of widespread economic gloom, made much worse by the media constantly banging-on about it.

I hope the prayers of our Archbishop John Sentamu will be heard ! And good luck to Stevenage ! A place with a much less attractive railway station than York.

RAF Pointless

2009-05-04T09:13:00.070+01:00

A friend drove us yesterday in the direction of Spurn Point, a fragile finger of land pointing into the brown expanse of the Humber estuary, but we never arrived at our destination. We travelled through the surprisingly leafy and vibrant city centre of Hull, so often regarded as a place few would want to visit because it's on the way to nowhere, and John Prescott lives there.

The landscape east of Hull is a peculiar one, with only slight undulations and many villages with strange names like Roos, Meaux and Swine. Our driver suddenly noticed a brown tourist sign reading 'Underground bunker' and immediately turned away from the route towards Spurn. We had no idea where this 'attraction' was located, the occasional signs gave no mileage to indicate how far the excited and mystified traveller would have to go.

Eventually, we came to the site, with only a small reception building and a car park, which I will continue to refer to as RAF Pointless to preserve the anonymity and security of this important defence establishment - substantial parts of it still remain CLASSIFIED. I was puzzled that the complex did not even appear on my Ordnance Survey map, though it is about fifteen years out of date; my dad always used maps that were at least thirty years old, which was why we often got lost on our family rambles around Yorkshire in the 1960s and 70s.

From the 1950s onwards this particular site near the town of Withernsea formed a key part of the UK's military defence, and notably during the Cold War when the vast underground concrete bunker would have been a haven for RAF personnel, but only if the Russians didn't score a direct hit ! I detected a substantial flaw in the logic of surviving a widespread nuclear conflict, because our 'enemies' would certainly have known exactly where these key installations were, even if the local population couldn't find them on O.S. maps.

We began our descent underground down a long tunnel lit only with dim red lights, guided by a well-spoken man in combat uniform who did not reveal his name. Though much still remains beyond the public gaze, there are substantial areas to view, mainly communications and intelligence gathering, but also a hospital, dormitories and canteen. A nice touch was the cat flap, though this appeared to be another example of weakness in the awesome walls of defence.

Since I gained any kind of political awareness in my teens I have always been anti-war, which seems to me the only sensible choice in these times of weapons of mass destruction (found everywhere except Iraq). Yet this enormous subterranean living space is absolutely fascinating, and such places should be a required element of the school curriculum, which will hopefully give our kids the awareness that ultimately such sites are pointless, because the only logical course is to steer clear of ultimate conflict.

We proceeded to the nearby seaside town of Withernsea for some light relief as there was no longer time to reach Spurn, but sadly their wonderful lighthouse situated in the middle of the residential area (away from the sea) was past closing time. It was only 4.30 on a Bank Holiday weekend in May, yet the whole town was already closing early due to lack of interest. It's a little-known fact that a secret Russian delegation of military experts stayed on a caravan site nearby at the height of Cold War tension; on returning to Moscow they were asked for their impressions of the place, and reported that they had already seen the end of the world.

Dylan

2009-04-25T08:34:00.041+01:00

If only last night's concert at the Sheffield Arena had been a musical version of the much loved children's programme Magic Roundabout, featuring the lovely rabbit Dylan; instead, we were forced to endure a very disappointing performance by the legendary Bob Dylan, who completely failed to engage with older fans or the many youngsters hoping to be converted to the faith.

I guess it's difficult when you enjoy so much early success as an icon of the 'counter-culture', then people are always wanting you to play those songs in the same old way, and you never quite match the poetic resonance of the early recordings. He could have at least tried to say a few words to the audience and establish some kind of friendly rapport, rather than blasting out track after noisy and distorted track, with a voice so broken as to be mostly unintelligible and lost in the relentless rhythm of blues-folk-rock.

I might buy his new album that comes out on Monday, because I still want to find the Bob Dylan who could offer listeners some kind of transcendence from the ordinary. If it wasn't for the fact that people widely respect his songwriting genius; if an unknown band had performed the same set last night, most folk would have demanded their money back; particularly as the leg-room was so poor in comparison to the Manchester Evening News Arena (where we saw the much more engaging Leonard Cohen a few months back).

I was delighted to finally get the opportunity of riding the Sheffield Supertram from the giant Meadowsprawl shopping centre; every town and city should have a tram network, not just places like Manchester, Nottingham, and of course Sheffield. We had hoped to travel on the train from York, but there were no late trains back, which meant a nerve-wracking drive on the crazy M1 motorway for my lady. I was amazed you could get from the Yorkshire Wolds to Sheffield in ninety minutes on a busy Friday tea-time, accompanied by many nutters driving well over the speed limit.

I'm sorry that my review is rather negative Bob; but I still believe in you after all these years, and even after last night.......not that you'll care !

(Update 20.5.09: We did get the new album, and it's much better than the live show, in my own (possibly flawed) opinion).

Drought

2009-04-22T10:32:00.052+01:00

I was taken aback, as I always am surprised, to be addressed by our dear neighbour the Wolds Witch this morning, riding in her large, black gas-guzzling vehicle. It was not to say what lovely weather we've been enjoying recently, but to comment that our young lad had been playing in her garden while they'd been away over Easter, and I should remind him this was not appropriate. Instead of telling her to F*** Off, and there are much more important issues in the world than her small plot, all I could think to say was that I hadn't been aware of it, and of course I would point out his failing.

Seven year-old lads are not always fully aware of boundaries in the same way as some older folk, and I would be much more inclined to respond with enthusiasm if the same point had been made by virtually anybody else in this small community. She is one of those all-too-common people who will only speak to you if it's a matter of their property, their children, or some other material issue that's been adversely affected - never a word when something has gone well, or just to exchange a pleasant word. I would never encourage my children to make use of another family's garden; but she just couldn't help making a point of it - and I wonder which other wonderful neighbour took delight in passing on this trivial report of a child's minor transgression ?

It has been marvellous to enjoy this continued sunny and mild weather in the Yorkshire Wolds, though nights are still almost frosty. Apart from the periods of snow and ice that were bothersome over winter, there has been so little rain in the last few months that I'm almost inclined to join the climate change bandwagon. Private water companies are pushing for more and more older properties to embrace water meters, and introducing excessive charges for churches and community facilities, mainly with the justification that there are serious ongoing water supply problems nationally, not just in London and the wider Southeast.

There are still many parts of the United Kingdom that have an abundance of water; yet we are always subject to the same rule - that if it's happening down South and anywhere near the Capital, it must be the same everywhere. The water companies will conveniently not mention their failure to invest in sufficient new reservoirs or a better network of long-distance pipes (without leaks) to collect and distribute all the water that accumulates at times of flooding and other wet periods.

I should forget any personal or more global problems; take my dusty Benelli Velvet 250 from the garage, and simply enjoy a ride through the sunny delight of the green and slightly desiccated natural world. It will probably rain throughout May, June, July and August; a dry British summer really would be a matter of concern.

The Walls

2009-04-18T08:50:00.049+01:00

We used an unusual method of escaping our Yorkshire Wolds village yesterday afternoon, the very rare and by no means daily public service bus that traces a delightful route through a few villages into the market town of Malton, six miles away. As the bus stop is right outside our newly refurbished church we had a look inside the smart interior, which bizarrely has very little in the way of religious objects and no stained glass windows. I believe they intended to tone down the biblical, making the small place more conducive to general use, like a book club meeting, or sheltering from the rain while waiting for the next bus, which could be more than 24 hours.

The bus fare was very cheap, but there was only one other passenger, and we 'all' got off outside the small railway station in Malton. The next part of our journey was the short and quick rail ride to York, which is ridiculously expensive in comparison to the bus, and if you travel at busy times there is no hope of a seat. My conclusion is that public transport can work very well in urban or suburban areas, but in most rural locations it is an expensive joke that is not sustainable in its present form, because the only way you can exist out in the sticks is to own a car.

It was wonderful to arrive at the architectural triumph of York station, with the kids getting very excited as we crossed over the River Ouse on the Scarborough railway bridge. Because of the lovely, sunny weather I decided to drag the brats along part of the city, or bar walls, as locals call them, walking from the west at Micklegate Bar back towards the station and Minster. If you ignore many of the modern intrusions this is one of the most splendid views that can be had in England - looking east in the direction of the Minster, though I'm sure there are many other fine vistas in both the built and natural environment across our small nation. You always have to be careful on the walls as parts of the route are not fenced, which means it would be fairly easy to fall off and break something; any wheelchair users will find access mostly impossible, though may find some satisfaction in wheeling onto the stretch near Lendal Bridge and attempting to ram tourists into the colourful flower beds below.

Most parts of York city centre have very much sold their soul to tourism, so if you can it's best to visit in the low season and discover the quiet charms of our secret back streets and passages; yet we are really coming into the season when it's a delight to sprawl on the grass of the Museum Gardens or the small park behind our massive cathedral. York has changed so much in the last forty years, from a town with very few cafes and not much to do, into a major tourist destination, which provides a large part of the city's income. Fortunately, there are many elements that are unchanging, which keep us in touch with a rich and multi-layered history of abundant fascination.

Ghosts

2009-04-14T08:41:00.045+01:00

Despite the poor weather on Sunday we took a picnic to the Yorkshire coast at Flamborough North Landing, because the sun is bound to come out some time, even in northern England. We then paid for the privilege of sitting in the car park on the cliff edge and munching our sandwiches and pork pie - at least the pork pie remaining that hadn't been seized by our ill-disciplined Tibetan Terrier.

It was drizzling, but we felt obliged to wander down to the sands, where the tide was out, revealing the many caves in the crumbling cliffs of chalk and mud. A small fishing coble was waiting in the bay for the right time to take folk round the headland, and even into the famous smugglers cave ! I have no definite idea what was carried up through the cave and underground passages to the top of the cliff high above, but you always imagine it was large barrels of Navy Rum or some other spirit - the kind of thing you'd see in the romanticised film portrayals, like dashing Stewart Granger in Moonfleet.

We heard rumours that the sun was indeed out, but much further north towards Whitby, so we opted to visit my sister's coastal home for some hot tea and indoor entertainment, only a few miles from Flamborough. It was there we were met by the slightly shaken appearance of the normally level-headed 'husband' engaged in the peaceful pursuit of hedge trimming, to take his mind off a recent disturbing incident. He was unable to relate the story himself, but my sister said he'd been woken in the night by unusual poking in the back and strange voices. I suppose this is one of the hazards of purchasing an older property; we have had no ghostly apparitions in our fairly new house - only unpleasant disturbance from near neighbours.

Inevitably, the family were treating his claims with mirthful derision, yet he remained convinced of this unwanted presence in the bedroom. The belief in such things seems to be more widespread than you'd think - more than half the people in a recent survey of North Yorkshire folk said they believed in ghosts. I don't know if this has anything to do with the long human history of places like York and its many surviving ancient pubs and other buildings; but can it really be anything more than distorted imagination ?

In Yarm you'll come to no harm

2009-04-06T08:25:00.058+01:00

We took full advantage of wonderful spring sunshine yesterday to visit a place just beyond North Yorkshire, very close to the industrial sprawl of Middlesborough, yet mostly untainted by the industry and deprivation to be found in the large town just to the north. Yarm was the place where the railway revolution began with a meeting to formulate the Stockton and Darlington Railway, so often mentioned in our school history books - at least it used to be. Yarm is dominated by a massive railway viaduct over the River Tees, but the main street is more reminiscent of quaint North Yorkshire market towns, like Bedale.

We parked close to a path leading along the dark River Tees with a sign: 'True Lovers' Walk' that seemed somewhat battered by time and neglected by those not believing in the path of true love. I have rarely seen so many wall plaques and signs as in this small town, everywhere proudly declaring its small part in the history of transport or distant wars. It's a shame to see the understated elegance of the main shopping street so overwhelmed by cars, particularly in a location famed for railway history.

It wasn't far to our next stop, through the delightful countryside on the border of Cleveland and North Yorkshire, to the more rural, small town of Stokesley on the banks of a clear and shallow River Leven. The day of interesting signs continued, with one in the churchyard warning of the danger of gravestones; not a concern for those already below ground, more likely children playing amidst the crumbling stonework.

We continued through the fascinating landscape of the Cleveland Hills, glimpsing the unique peak of Roseberry Topping, which should really be the name of a pudding or at least the 'topping' of a dessert, standing out against the eroding edge of the steep escarpment. For the same reason that Wainwright (famous author of walking guides) so loved to escape into the Lakeland fells, it was good to be away from our everyday cares and other people, amidst the sunny glory of nature.

Egg rolling

2009-04-02T09:00:00.031+01:00

An emergency statement was issued by our village school earlier this week to clarify the nature of egg rolling; the big event is taking place today, some time before Easter itself, because the school holidays start tomorrow. The statement reads:

'Every year at school we have an egg rolling competition at Easter. The children bring a hard-boiled egg to school, which they decorate in class, then each class takes it in turn to roll their eggs down the road outside school, cheered on by other classes. The child whose egg rolls the furthest wins a small prize.'

Thank God they explained it, because I was REALLY worried about the possibly sinister nature of this activity.

It seems similar practices are widespread, even including egg rolling on the White House lawns every year in the USA, which should be fun for the Obama children this time. In some peculiar locations, like the Heptonstall area of West Yorkshire, they hold Pace Egg celebrations - I'm not exactly sure what goes on, but it does involve some bizarre dressing-up.

The significance of these events are given different interpretations - from a Christian perspective it's Jesus and rolling away the stone, and from a more naturalistic standpoint, the idea of spring and rebirth, which can also be applied to the Christian Easter message as well. As far as our young lad is concerned he simply wants to win a prize, but is concerned that his already damaged, decorated egg will explode on its journey down Back Lane.

There might be some bigger celebrations if the report from our youngster proves to be true, that our dear neighbour the Wolds Witch is leaving the village ! We are remaining very cautious about this information, because there is not even a For Sale sign outside their property, but if it is true ! Joy will indeed be unconfined.

The Lives of Others

2009-03-30T09:01:00.052+01:00

Losing an hour in bed on Sunday morning might take months to recover from, but at least British Summer Time began with spectacular blue skies after a frosty start in the Yorkshire Wolds. We walked the empty fields of our little used village trail, in the hope of showing our kids some frogspawn at a small pond hidden away in a nearby valley - perhaps we were a little too late, because we had seen plenty of spawn in a friend's pond in Leeds a couple of weeks back. It was good to tramp the deserted fields though, feeling something approaching warmth from the sun, yet still rather chilly in the shade. It must have been reasonably warm, as our daughter lay outside on the grass in the afternoon with a good book, and a thin blanket - we're still a long way from July.

I continued my usual pattern of not watching films when they come out, by finally getting around to seeing The Lives of Others at the end of last week. This is by no means a light-hearted piece, however I found it an extraordinarily compelling story (based on real events) set in East Germany before the collapse of the Berlin Wall. It focuses mainly on the events surrounding a poet/writer, his wife - a famous actress, and their circle of artistic friends, and the elaborate spying operation carried out by the Stasi.

Because of the hideous pressure to follow the Communist Party line, enforced by the secret police, the level of suicides in East Germany was known to be incredibly high, but then completely denied by the State. A sophisticated surveillance operation is established to gather evidence of the anti-Government activities of the poet and his associates, with a particular Stasi wire-tapping expert put in charge. We also witness the widespread corruption amongst Government officials - the actress wife of the poet even finding it necessary to offer sexual favours in order to protect her vulnerable husband.

The fascination of this film is to witness the changing outlook of the career secret policeman as he becomes increasingly sympathetic to the position of the people he is supposed to be undermining. As his observation continues he actually changes the recorded evidence, allowing the writer to smuggle an anti-Government article (concerning suicides) to West Germany for publication. It is never fully explained why the Stasi official has this change of heart; and I won't spoil the dramatic ending by telling you how it all unfolds.

Of course we have nothing to worry about in the United Kingdom in this respect ! It's not as if we have a sophisticated intelligence network protecting our carefully maintained Government powers........

Lamping

2009-03-26T09:01:00.027Z

I always remember with a smile the scene from the first (I think it was) Crocodile Dundee film where some drunken idiots were driving around the Australian bush at night shooting kangaroos in their vehicle headlights. The funny aspect was that actor Paul Hogan, as Crocodile Dundee, dressed himself as a kangaroo, hid in the scrub, and gave the mentally-deficient men the shock of their lives by firing back at them, apparently as a real kangaroo.

When I took our Tibetan Terrier for a late village walk the other night, I was shocked to witness a similar activity on the big hill high above our small community. The headlights of some 4x4 pick-up were directly facing towards the village, and the guns were being fired, presumably at the many surprisingly large hares that roam our chalk fields.

The same evening there had been an item on the local TV news about the extent of wildlife crime in England's largest county - our own North Yorkshire. The Police are only able to allocate very limited resources to tackling these mindless thugs, who will target just about any creature, from badgers to birds of prey. The RSPCA and other animal charities do their best to deal with some of the problem, but in such a large geographical area most of these episodes of brutality go unreported.

It would be foolish for any member of the public to challenge these mental-midgets with guns, yet I would dearly love to dress as a giant hare and conceal myself behind a hedge or tree, waiting with my own weapon to give them an unexpected fright. There defence would be that incomers don't understand the ways of the countryside, but I think we should feel fully justified in rejecting such violence - almost exclusively perpetrated by stupid men, who should take out their aggression by visiting one of those laser zones or similar play areas for adult children.

Our local depot

2009-03-23T09:00:00.040Z

A few recent episodes have made me even more concerned about the state of our national postal service that has seen so many Post Office closures, including the lovely one that used to be in this village. I spend 99 percent of my time at home these days, which means I'm really unlucky if parcels are delivered when I'm out, yet they still seem to come in that small window of absence - walking the dog or collecting the young lad from the village school.

Last week I had a card through the door from Parcelforce inviting me to visit 'your local Parcelforce Worldwide depot' if collecting an undelivered parcel in person. I was surprised to see that the depot was not in the nearby town of Malton, or York, or even Scarborough; I went on to the AA routeplanner site to check the route and distance to this unfamiliar location - 65 miles away in Middlesborough !

The parcel was redelivered the next day, but again I was collecting the young lad, however the driver did leave it at the rear of our house because I'd stuck a note on the front door asking him to do so. If I'd not left this instruction it would have been taken back to Middlesborough again - a place not known for its scenic beauty, just a truly remarkable transporter bridge. A few years ago it would have been a simple matter to leave the package at our community Post Office.

Smaller parcels are brought by the ordinary postman in his red van, but if they're slightly too large for the letterbox will be returned to Malton, or you have the option of using the Royal Mail redelivery service. As we had no immediate plans to visit our nearest town I used their redelivery website for another recent failed delivery, and got a print-out telling me the item would come in two days time. I was extremely keen not to miss the postman on this occasion, who usually turns-up at lunchtime, and spent several happy hours waiting for the elusive package. It never came. I then emailed the Post Office customer care, who denied it was due to be delivered on that day, even though I had the print-out to prove it.

The third example of postal delights is a happier story, when my daughter and friend created home-made cards for Mother's Day, posting them in our tiny village post box, for some reason without putting stamps on - they'd actually drawn the stamps using felt-tips in the top right-hand corner ! What usually happens these days when the sender fails to use the correct postage is that you get a card saying the item can be collected if you'll pay the full postage and a one pound admin. fee. I informed my daughter of her stupidity and said that we wouldn't bother paying for these cards; miraculously they were delivered to our house and the friend's home - both with second class stamps stuck over the fake pen-drawn stamps.

I can only conclude that many children post their home-made cards to mum at this special time of year without the correct stamps, and the Royal Mail still have the smallest of soft centres at the heart of their dark and chaotic business empire - prepared to lose all that potential revenue to ensure that mums scattered across the United Kingdom know that they are still truly valued. Maybe there is some hope for our universal postal service after all.

No way home

2009-03-19T09:08:00.045Z

It has been a stressful week, when I could actually feel my heart being damaged by worry - if only I had a more carefree personality, usually associated with the average duck and the water repellent quality of its back. The problem arose when our daughter returned from school on Monday saying the County Council had banned her from travelling on the return school bus with only one day's notice.

This is a long-standing issue for many parents in this area who decided to send their children to an apparently better school - according to published evidence at the time of admission, rather than the one a mile closer. Because there is virtually no public transport in our rural location the County Council provide a free return bus service for the slightly nearer school, but feel no obligation to have a similar service from the other place of learning, despite their failure for many years to offer an equivalent standard of education for those unlucky enough to live on the wrong side of Malton. There is also the important environmental concern - it is much better to have a single bus carrying many pupils than loads of cars turning-up to collect individuals.

After much pressure from parents the County Council provided a paid return bus from our daughter's school, and back in September I reluctantly requested a form to apply for a pass, and asked if there was any reduction for those on low income (or no income in my case). We had no response, until earlier this week when the service was immediately withdrawn for our lass and some others who had failed to obtain the elusive pass. Despite the fact we have little spare cash I was forced to ring the County Council and pay 210 pounds, which might be a trivial amount to some, but not to others.

These problems would not have arisen if the County Council had ensured that both schools were offering a roughly equivalent standard of education; at the time of our daughter's admission to the 'better' school the other one didn't even have a sixth form, which is currently being rectified, and the 'inferior' school is now performing to a much higher level.

This whole relatively trivial episode that has actually been dragging on for years, neatly summarises the transport problems of living in the countryside. The Government often bang on about helping folk in rural areas, but the reality is that when it comes down to it you're usually left to struggle alone, and cope with the stubbornness of a County Council policy and the subsequent problems that have actually been created by their inability to offer a decent school on this side of Malton (until very recently). Obviously, it would be ridiculous to ask our daughter to change schools now, but I very much hope that our young lad will go to the formerly crap school in a few years time, thus avoiding all this unnecessary hassle.

I am very sad to hear about the untimely death of the beautiful actress Natasha Richardson; I will never forget her radiant performance in the important and moving film: A Month In The Country, based on the book by Yorkshire writer JL Carr. It is sobering to witness how suddenly even the most delightful creatures can be taken away.

The Water Rats

2009-03-16T09:00:00.033Z

Living only twenty or so miles from the Yorkshire Coast means that weekends frequently take us to either Staithes, Saltburn, Whitby, Robin Hoods Bay, Scarborough, Filey, Bridlington, or even further south towards the mouth of the mighty Humber river - the disappearing coastline. There is a surprising variety to be found, from the brash arcades of Scarborough to the wilderness of Spurn Point.

This time our young lad and friend were on the soft sand of the South Bay at Scarborough, digging holes in the near darkness, while the calm sea was almost up to the road. We've got another taste of the mild weather now, and with the days lengthening it didn't feel too cold on the sands after six on Saturday evening. There was even a young woman dancing and splashing in the gentle waves of high tide - I don't think she was drunk, it just seemed like she'd not seen the sea in a very long time - her boyfriend could only look on with complete bemusement.

We had some excellent fish, chips and mushy peas in the modest surroundings of the Fish Pan cafe, which is always a hit with the kids because you get to keep a plastic plate with a picture of tropical fish on. You can also look out of the first floor window across the ocean, and watch the donkeys and people pack-up and go home. Above the cafe windows it says DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS, which is presumably a message to summer diners, warning of over-eager gulls when the windows are open.

The mother of our young lad's friend had rung us before departure to check that her boy would not be allowed in the sea to swim; even our fairly relaxed supervision would not contemplate bathing in the North Sea in the middle of March. It turned out that a relative of hers had nearly drowned in the sea at Scarborough; and such events are sadly not uncommon, particularly when big waves are lashing the Marine Drive.

Inevitably, the youngsters did get their feet wet running from the incoming tide, because kids of seven are unable to contain their playfulness, and rightly so. It all ended in tears when some sand blew into the friend's eyes, which meant a prompt return to the car, while doing our best to stop them lean over too far into the harbour.

Bring on more of this mild weather; I believe we had some snow later in March last year, but all being well the daffodils of our village will soon be at their brilliant yellow best - a few weeks behind more sheltered places, like the majestic city walls of York.

The pub

2009-03-12T09:07:00.049Z

We were shocked to hear that an apparently prosperous pub in a neighbouring village is to close, despite being very favourably reviewed in one of the more prestigious UK Sunday newspapers not too long ago. This particular public house had very much gone down the 'gastro-pub' route, with a particular emphasis on finer dining, perhaps at the expense of retaining a place where locals can go for darts and a pint, with a pickled egg on the side. This kind of pub closure is sadly becoming less newsworthy as many people are staying at home with cheap supermarket booze, because of severe financial constraints, resulting in a rash of sudden business failings - all of which cannot make the front page.

Our own village hostelry appears to thrive, but as I haven't spoken to the landlord about the issue it's difficult to know just how much of a struggle they are having. They seem to strike a balance between offering above-average fayre, while maintaining many traditional pub activities for villagers. Some places are offering meals at crazy prices, like a one pound lunch, in an attempt to lure customers, but this seems just too cheap to make a decent living.

There has been quite a big pub story in nearby York recently, where the landlord of the Brown Cow has been sacked by Sam Smith's brewery for smoking after his establishment was closed to the public. Most folk feel this is an over-reaction by the Tadcaster brewers; the current law states that smoking is not permitted in the non-private areas of the pub even when all punters have long gone home. I believe the unfortunate landlord and partner are still awaiting the bailiffs to eject them, and the brewery have erected scaffolding so the couple can only enter the premises by a first floor window.

I was lucky enough to visit the Sam Smith's brewery (founded 1758) on a couple of occasions as a young man, where the atmosphere had a Willy Wonka magic about it - from the heady aromas of the hop room, use of the Yorkshire Square system of fermentation - in large squares of solid slate, to the carefully groomed shire horses - gentle giants that still delivered some of their wooden beer casks. This recent case of the 'smoking landlord' has shattered some of my romantic illusions about this beer business; I'm not even sure if Sam Smith's is still an independent, family operation, or has gone down the same route as local rivals John Smith's - swallowed up by some multi-national.

It would be devastating for our village if the pub closed, because we have barely recovered from the closure of the shop and post office; a community without any of these social facilities is a poor place indeed. Our small school is at least thriving, and brings kids from all around the immediate area into a mostly happy and buzzing environment, particularly now we have the splendid MUGA (Multi-use games area) that can also be used by the wider community for football, basketball, hockey, or ferret racing.

Jog on !

2009-03-09T09:24:00.042Z

Crazy June, our close neighbour, in geographical terms only, surprised me on Saturday morning by returning to our little cul-de-sac in a sporting outfit. She had apparently been jogging, or jogging and walking, with her young daughter dragged along for moral support. She would doubtless expect myself and others to laugh at her efforts towards fitness, but I actually regard it as a brave move, particularly for someone not resembling Dame Kelly Holmes. Anybody who even attempts to go running in this hilly area deserves a medal simply for turning out; I reckon I'll stick to the much safer pursuit of indoor cycling - literally going nowhere, quite fast. I can only hope that physical exercise will take the edge of that terrible temper, as we still frequently hear her screaming at the kids, and probably the poor hubby too.

We have very little idea what goes on behind the closed doors of other houses, and I fear that in a very few cases it might be things rather painful and hideous. Still, we have little sympathy when all goes badly wrong, and our delightful UK tabloid newspapers are vicious in their attacks on social workers that fail to prevent child tragedies. Some of the criticisms may be justified, but I'd like to see some of these journalists have a go at looking after difficult families on the UK's bleakest estates.

I used to be quite a keen runner myself, though did find it rather boring, unless you had a nice companion to chat along with. I found it interesting that my athletics hero Steve Ovett, along with Sebastian Coe, Steve Cram and Peter Elliot were all born at the end of September/early October (as I am) and enjoyed such success on the track around the same time, and all specialising at 800/1500m. Probably just a coincidence; I'm sure a Kenyan athlete can be born at any time of year and still run 25 miles each way to school without thinking about it. I always remember a TV cross country commentary, where the clot with the microphone described an athlete running up a hill 'like an ibis' - I think he probably meant ibex, or some kind of goat-like creature that laughs at steep gradients.

We had some more excitement in our cul-de-sac of joy on Friday night, when an ambulance turned-up at a house on the other side. We thought it might be the old guy having some heart trouble, but our teenage daughter claims that a sixteen year-old lass (with baby) have been adopted by the elderly couple, and the treatment was not for the senior citizens. I just hope the tabloids don't get hold of it; and worse still, the Wolds Witch - if she thinks there's some kind of care home situation going on in our leafy little community, she simply will not let the matter rest. I can see her composing a stiff letter to the Council right now.

Lamb dressed as mutton

2009-03-05T09:10:00.048Z

Many of us will be familiar with the well-worn expression 'mutton dressed as lamb' that usually describes an older woman attempting to look much younger by applying lots of make-up, and failing hideously to be convincing. These days however we have the opposite - lamb dressed as mutton - young girls and young women, encouraged by the irresponsible glossy magazines, to slap on plenty of make-up and other 'beauty' products in a vain attempt to look older and match the impossible standards of catwalk culture.

I have observed directly with my own teenage daughter how she has been sucked into an uncomfortable addiction to serial shopping and the purchase of 'essential' make-up products. It's a waste of time trying to discourage her from hiding the natural beauty of youth behind this slap, because the peer pressure is just too strong - fuelled by magazines and TV nonsense.

When we used to live in a slightly dodgy area of York near the football ground, and frequently visit the Corner House pub, we would often encounter a lady who was the worst example of 'mutton' ever seen. She would make a particular effort on Saturday night, which was invariably a fighting night, when the gypsies would come over from Clifton Moor and end up trashing the place. It might be unkind to say the better physical years were well behind her (and God knows it comes to us all) but excessive application of the most garish colours imaginable does not enhance the image of such a woman one bit. When will we all learn to show ourselves warts and all ?

We had a small amount of hail and snow in the Yorkshire Wolds yesterday - an unwelcome reminder of winter after several days of splendid mild weather. Daffodils have been peeking through in the last few weeks, though no signs of any brilliant yellow flowers just yet. This Thursday morning is delightfully bright blue and sunny, which is bringing a rapid thaw of the widespread ice - minus three degrees Celsius last night. There is great joy to be found in the natural world around here - so many plants and flowers, without the need of additional dressing-up.

A night at the bingo

2009-03-02T09:06:00.037Z

I really was lucky enough to encounter a wonderful lassi in Leeds - it was on the edge of the red-light district to be precise, and after dark of course. The splendid mango lassi drink was taken at Tastys curry house near Spencer Place - a friendly, no-nonsense cafe, serving good, simple food, without the need for the fancy decor you get in many Indian restaurants. We had intended to visit one of the many Bradford curry and cockroach establishments, but settled on one much closer to home.

Friday night in our own little village was the much promoted bingo night, which genuinely brought together most of our small community for a couple of hours number crunching. It's a shame this type of event doesn't happen more often because it proves that people still can come together and have a good laugh, while playing a fairly pointless game. All the prizes were donated by villagers, such as wine and hampers of cheapish produce; we didn't win anything, but enjoyed the free biscuits and strong Yorkshire tea at half-time.

It was amusing to see the prim and proper Wolds Witch looking slightly uncomfortable as the bingo caller referred to 'two dietary challenged chaps with man boobs - 88,' which he alternated with the more traditional 'two fat ladies - 88.' There were many problems with people at the back not hearing the numbers, and false claims of 'House!'; next time it will be a good idea to get a microphone that actually works.

A night at the bingo, sounds like the excellent early Queen album, A Night at the Opera, and its close twin, A Day at the Races - titles taken from Marx Brothers films I believe. Both records came from the period before Queen had massive commercial success, and along with Ziggy Stardust, Marc Bolan and Abba, were the soundtrack of my teenage years. I can remember exactly where I was when Elvis died on the 16 August 1977, and I will always remember listening to the World Service in Udaipur, India, when they announced the death of the great showman Freddie Mercury - the irreplaceable lead singer of Queen - 24 November 1991.

OK, so I didn't see the Love of my Life (great Queen track) on our weekend visit to Leeds, but Leeds is an incredibly busy and overwhelming place when you spend ninety-nine percent of your time in a tiny Yorkshire Wolds village. I really must try and get a better grip on reality and not spend so much time dreaming about the past, and future............instead existing in the scintillating present, like a snow leopard stalking prey.

To Leeds

2009-02-26T09:04:00.043Z

Instead of having an outdoor ice rink over the Christmas period, Leeds have theirs from the middle of January until early March, which is the main reason we're visiting with the kids on Saturday. We're also planning a trip to one of the many cheap curry houses in Bradford, though I'm sure Leeds must have some decent ones too.

Though Leeds is only twenty-five miles from York, it couldn't be more different to the largely rural county of North Yorkshire, which is nothing like the image many southerners must have of flat caps and warm, thick accents - that you might well find in West Yorkshire.

I was lucky to live in Leeds for one year in 1982, when the city was rather shabby compared to the shiny metropolis of today, which is certainly taking a hit during these difficult financial times, yet remains vibrant. All my memories of the place are not about the buildings or hilly geography (so unlike the dead-flat Vale of York), but about one tall lass who captured my heart.

Such was the impact of our relationship that I will be expecting to see her in Leeds city centre on Saturday, which I realise is utterly ridiculous - she could be living in New Zealand for all I know. It's crazy to feel this way after more than twenty-five years, but I have always been unable to rid myself of the strong feelings we shared.

In 1982 I worked at a 'mental handicap' hospital in one of the leafier areas of the sprawling city, but found the work was more suited to those who could go home and forget about it - I couldn't. The site has become a housing estate, and for many of the intervening years we have been left with so-called 'care in the community.' The old hospitals had many faults, but they also had plenty of dedicated people working to improve the lives of the less fortunate, and giving them a secure environment to call home.

I'll let you know if my old flame is burning a hole in the ice this Saturday; the mild weather has come, yet it can remain a cold and lonely environment in these small, chalk hills, so far from the buzz of a big city.

Community payback

2009-02-23T09:08:00.055Z

We were on the Yorkshire coast again yesterday, this time at Danes Dyke, an ancient man-made earthwork, which includes a path leading onto a beach of brilliant white pebbles, just north of the town of Bridlington. It was slightly disconcerting to encounter many young men all wearing bright orange tabards proclaiming: 'Community Payback.' We assumed this was part of the scheme to involve criminals in useful work, such as repairing the extensive damage caused by coastal erosion. It was no surprise to find yet another section of cliff fallen away, even though the geology transforms to the more robust chalk as you approach the dramatic heights of Flamborough. These naughty chaps are clearly being taught a stern lesson - making them work for nothing on a Sunday in February - harsh indeed.

Of course it has turned much warmer, and the clear, calm sea over pebbles of chalk was almost reminiscent of hot days in the Greek islands. The refreshment outlet was a strong reminder that we were very much in England, with bacon butties for two pounds, and the possibility of large pasties being heated on request. Danes Dyke is also a local nature reserve, even featuring the shag (a seabird), which will inevitably have caused some amusement amongst our reforming criminals, well known to confuse women with birds. It gave our friend from Leeds the opportunity to boast that he'd had a fifth of the UK wintering population of waxwings in his garden - a likely story !

All is very quiet in our Yorkshire Wolds village this Monday morning as the kids have reluctantly returned to sit in front of the electronic whiteboard, and mainly concentrate on Maths and English at primary school (according to media reports in the last few days) ignoring other subjects. The really good thing about these expensive substitutes for the old chalk and blackboard is that you can show the latest DVD films really effectively at the after school club. The real excitement is building for the bingo night to be held at the school on Friday, a massive social event for our small community. If the ridiculous number of TV adverts for online bingo is anything to go by, the school hall should be overflowing with eager punters.

I have re-sited the feng shui 'mirror' that was hanging directly above our front door, so now it directly faces the home of our dear neighbour the Wolds Witch. I was advised by a lady living in the Chicago area of Obamaland to buy such an item, because it might help to stop negative energy coming from the house of darkness that is all too close. I will monitor the situation carefully over the coming months of lighter days, to see if her darkness can truly be kept at bay !

Glorious mud

2009-02-19T08:31:00.034Z

We ended up at the tiny seaside resort of Filey earlier this week, which felt very mild after the recent heavy snow, almost warm enough to sit on the beach - the tide being well out. The fragile mud cliffs always make me acutely aware that nature and our part in it is in a state of constant flux, that usually we are blissfully unaware of with all the modern distractions of TV and Internet. At a less commercial destination like Filey it's possible to re-connect with life in it's natural form, simply by taking a long stroll on the sands.

Our kids discovered a great new game, which they played for a surprisingly long time - throwing large pebbles from the seashore into the 'lava runs' of muddy cliffs - even more mushy following the snow melt. You end up with a result similar to the pebble-dashed front of a house, and also get plenty of mud on your shoes and clothing.

Council workers had several bonfires lit on the valley sides down to the sea front and Coble Landing, clearing a great deal of messy vegetation in time for the tourist influx of spring and summer. I hope they will leave sufficient grass, bushes and trees to stop even more mud washing away into the large bowl of Filey Bay.

The kids demanded that we visit the Shuga Shak - a tiny food and drink outlet directly on the sea wall, which allowed them to watch the fascinating donut machine, like a production line in miniature. The stall next door selling traditional seafood was doing no business, but donuts, and the outlet further along dispensing tea and giant chip butties were both buzzing with half-term visitors.

The sun almost came out a few times as we looked across the calm North Sea towards the giant chalk cliffs at Bempton and Flamborough. Media reports suggest many more people will be staying at home for their holidays this year due to financial issues, hoping we will have the elusive long, hot summer that will see the mud cliffs of Filey bake rock hard.

Digging

2009-02-16T10:44:00.064Z

I had a bizarre encounter with a former colleague at one of the giant Tesco stores on the outskirts of York on Saturday, the kind of soulless place I usually successfully avoid - not wishing to add my own financial contribution to a company reported to relieve UK citizens of one pound in every seven spent, with their slick and fairly cheap product range - just about everything you can think of.

The chap who approached me unexpectedly in the dairy aisle, I'd worked with in 1981 when it was boom time for archaeology in York, which brought together a peculiar mix of people to assist the true archaeological professionals. The Coppergate Viking dig was big news at the time, and other excavations were being started across the city, that even brought young people from America and Scandinavia to join the jolly party atmosphere. And it was mostly good fun, working in a fascinating, though often muddy environment, which always seemed to involve plenty of drinking; much more stimulating than office work.

This man shopping at Tesco in 2009 was always regarded as somewhat strange back in 1981, and what made the encounter more peculiar was that he asked about other co-workers from that time as if it had only been last week. He was dressed as if he'd just left a rather muddy dig site, and told me that he'd been working for the Council Parks Department for 23 years. He was disappointed when I told him that I'd taken a voluntary redundancy package from the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, because his mindset was that one should try to remain in the same employment field all your life - if possible. Yet his own enjoyment and memories of that time working in archaeology was still incredibly strong, and I remember it myself as a period of fun and excitement, sadly not often repeated in other jobs.

I remember there was even a satirical 'news' publication created by diggers during the summer of 1981 called New International Trowel, which poked fun at the archaeological establishment, and probably this poor chap I met in the polished aisles of our most successful retail company. He still seemed very much the outsider, and I watched him with some sadness as he waited for the No.6 bus, while most others got into their comfortable cars with partner and family.

Most people, including myself, were only dabbling in this specialised profession, and lacking the necessary degree and experience to make a career out of it; those able to enjoy a lifetime in such an interesting area of employment are lucky indeed. Perhaps nothing has quite matched the buzz that surrounded the Coppergate and other excavations at that time, but archaeology will always have an important role in places like York. Because of the large Hungate development in the City there has been and continues to be significant archaeological work (until 2012), which has uncovered unique insights into the area - during the 1840s it was a very deprived working class community. It would be nice to say such impoverished areas no longer exist in York...........but some things never change.

Many people however, will find the earlier periods more enthralling, as the mucky holes become deeper and deeper, taking us back through Medieval, Viking, Anglo-Saxon, Roman, and to the conveniently labelled time of Prehistory. Perhaps I should go to York's famous Barnitts hardware store and buy a new trowel, not forgetting one for the eccentric chap I met at Tesco.

Summer Dreamin'

2009-02-13T09:46:00.036Z

We had a large dump of further snow yesterday afternoon and evening, which has given us perhaps the deepest layering of all our time in this Yorkshire Wolds village - around eight years - I'm not very good at remembering exact dates. Our village school is usually one of the first in North Yorkshire to close, but has managed to open for this final day of half-term - a non-uniform day.

I must be a very slow reader because I've just finished Prospero's Cell by Lawrence Durrell - A guide to the landscape and manners of the island of Corfu, after several months. It's probably best that he's no longer alive to experience many of Corfu's tourism excesses; the book is mostly a record of life on the island just before the Second World War brought its own kind of cruel devastation.

We have booked a holiday to the island in the summer, hoping to escape the tourist hordes and explore the interior landscape of this large Greek island. It has lost some popularity in recent years due to the very development they thought we tourists wanted, and now must attempt to re-invent itself as a quality destination. I am hopeful that we won't meet people like Peter Mandelson, the current Government Business Secretary, and all the rich men that were reported in the media last year, hanging-out on the island. I don't mind a certain level of commercialism, but would rather not bump-into UK politicians on an away-from-it-all break.

Looking out the window this morning it is hard to imagine a Mediterranean landscape, as I watch car wheels spinning in the snow, but even England might see some warmer weather eventually - for a couple of days in August. At least it's getting noticeably lighter in the morning and evening, suggesting that there is some hope of emerging from this hell of grit-salt, ice, and broken bones.

A colleague of my dear lady broke an arm and leg this week, but there was such a backlog of fractures at York Hospital due to slippery pavements, she had to wait quite a while before getting the necessary bone-pinning surgery. I know what it's like being stuck in a hospital waiting for similar repairs, having broken my leg on the Greek island of Syros in 2005. My experience of the Greek health system was mostly positive, except they are much shorter of funds than we are in England. One of the most common injuries for people travelling to warmer climates is fractures resulting from jumps into shallow water - as I did into the harbour at Galissas, Syros - a lovely island by the way !