Earworm

Every few days, unrequested songs appear in my mental jukebox . Mostly, they come from way back in my life. It's as if I have no control over their re-emergence.

 Regarding the song I shall share with you today, I first heard it one winter in my village primary school. By a big black stove, we clustered around the old walnut wireless clasping our copies of "Singing Together" produced by the BBC.

We didn't just listen, we sang. Those schools programmes were thoughtfully constructed so that we could rehearse each song in chunks. Later, we might sing what we had just learnt without radio accompaniment.

The song is "Bonnie Charlie", more commonly titled, "Will Ye No Come Back Again?" It's a song of Scotland from the middle of the eighteenth  century, written by Carolina Oliphant (Lady Nairne). It refers to the young pretender - Bonnie Prince Charlie and the tensions between Catholicism and Protestantism - including The Jacobite Uprising and its suppression.

But I don't think of it that way. I think of the people that I have lost  and the people that you have lost. Family members and friends and acquaintances. It is a silver thread running through the tapestries of our lives. And though we might often ask "Will ye no come back again?" the answer is silently negative.

Bonnie Charlie's now awa'

Safely owre the friendly main;

Mony a heart will break in twa,

Should he ne’er come back again.

Will ye no come back again?

Will ye no come back again?

Better lo'ed ye canna be,

Will ye no come back again?

Halloween

There are no ghosts or spirits on the loose and Halloween is a load of old bunkum. Witches, skeletons, scary scarecrows, spiders and suchlike - it is all what the Irish might call bollix.

When I was a lad, growing up in the heart of East Yorkshire, Halloween was hardly a thing. After all, just four days later we had Mischief Night to look forward to and on November 5th - one of the most momentous days of the year - Bonfire Night which is sometimes called Guy Fawkes Night. Compared with that, Halloween was a mere blip on the calendar.

When our kids were little, it was with much reluctance that we allowed the Halloween nonsense to seep into our lives. After all, the commercial hype had gradually become unstoppable. There were costumes to buy, parties to attend and scary films to watch. Halloween had got everywhere - rather like COVID19.

The presence of swollen pumpkins in our supermarkets was quite distasteful. Shouldn't farmers grow things we can eat and not orange orbs to be carved for Halloween and then discarded? It didn't seem right so I was a dad who never carved a pumpkin... until yesterday afternoon.

Partly, I carved it for the granddaughters but mostly  for my own creative satisfaction. I had bought the pumpkin from Sainsburys for a mere £1.75 (US $2.30). Bigger ones cost £2.

I wanted to give my pumpkin a happy face. He or she should not be scary. There is enough scariness in the world right now so why should I add to that climate? Besides, as I said at the beginning, there are no ghosts or evil spirits. That is pure poppycock.

I planned the face and used one of Phoebe's water-based felt-tips to mark out the features - knowing that I could later wipe those lines away. Phoebe got on a step to watch the pumpkin artist at work but, annoyingly, she kept leaning on me, threatening to jolt my right hand in which I held a sharp kitchen dagger.

The insides of my very first finished pumpkin's head were thrown out for composting. In that sense I felt rather like a lobotomist. I found a large tea candle in a tin container and lit it just before teatime, placing the head on a table next to the French windows in our dining room. It was already dark by then.

Phoebe and Margot were called to the unlit dining room to see the glowing happy face outside and of course they were as impressed by old grandpa's artistry as  Rembrandt's grandchildren were probably impressed by "The Night Watch".  Happy Halloween everybody - whatever that stupid greeting might mean to you!

Quiztime

It's that time again. Try not to get too excited. Yes! It's QUIZTIME! On this occasion, I am giving you ten random images but can you decipher them accurately enough to win the points? No multiple choice answers this time round. As usual, solutions will be given in the comments section.

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1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

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That's all folks! How did you do?

Traquair

Bust of Phoebe Anna Traquair in Edinburgh

At the risk of boring regular readers, I want to follow up yesterday's Thomas Wallis blogpost with a post about another obscure artist whose work I encountered on the way home from Louth.

For years, Shirley and I travelled along the A631 road towards Gainsborough whenever we were visiting her parents - Charlie and Winnie. They lived in a small village by the River Trent where Charlie farmed the same land this his father and grandfather had tilled before him.

In those days, there were never any brown signposts in the vicinity of Gringley-on-the-Hill and Drakeholes. In Great Britain, such signposts indicate a visitor attraction. Perhaps ten years ago fresh brown signposts appeared showing the way to "The Traquair Murals".

To tell you the truth I did not give these signs much thought and besides by then Charlie and Winnie had both shuffled off their mortal coils so we didn't head out that way very often. I imagined that the murals would be faded old medieval paintings in a country church.

Anyway, on Monday morning, as we headed home at our leisure, Shirley  suggested that we should take a diversion to find out what these "Traquair Murals" actually were.

Soon we found ourselves in the village of Clayworth and a sign in the churchyard indicated that this is where the mystery would be solved.

How charming is the historic Church of St Peter. We were the only visitors and there ahead of us were The Traquair murals - filling the walls of the chancel - colourful and surprisingly modern.

The paintings were commissioned by Lady D'Arcy Godolphin Osborne in gratitude for the safe return of her son from the Boer Wars in South Africa. The artist that Lady D'Arcy picked was quite well-known at the time and mainly based in Edinburgh. She was Phoebe Anna Traquair (nee Moss) 1852-1936.

The work was completed in the summer of 1905. Although religious in nature and informed by muralists of the past, The Traquair Murals at Clayworth have, as I said previously, a modern feel about them in the "arts and crafts" tradition that was active in this country before World War I.

In the first two pictures, I successfully snapped details of Mrs Traquair's work but I give credit to Geograph colleague Julian Guffogg for the last two images as my own attempts were too blurry.

Wallis

Though he was born in the city of Hull, Thomas Wilkinson Wallis spent most of his life in Louth, Lincolnshire. Born in 1821, he died in 1903.

He learnt the craft of woodcarving during a long apprenticeship in the city of his birth but as he grew older he demonstrated that his talent was extraordinary. Using single blocks of lime wood, he was able to carve  remarkable decorative pieces in  which fine tools such as scalpels  were used to create incredible detail. For example, his carved ivy leaves are as thin as living ivy leaves.

Some of his work is on display in Louth Museum and though the pieces are over one hundred and sixty years old, the skills that he possessed remain very apparent. He needed more than immense patience and a steady hand, he also required daring and vision.

Thomas Wallis was acclaimed in his own lifetime and received numerous commissions - including one or two from America. He was also invited to send examples of his work to  The Great Exhibition of 1851  in London and to The Paris Exhibition of 1855 where he won medals.

Rather tragically, in 1858, Wallis damaged his eyes while observing an eclipse through inadequately smoked glass, and fear of permanently losing his sight caused him to finally abandon his career as a carver in 1874. He went on to become the Borough Surveyor for Louth and was also involved in public health inspection.

Until last Saturday I admit that I knew nothing about Thomas Wallis but having seen examples of his work, it seems to me that he was a genius. Not so much a wood carver, more a sculptor in wood and a true artist. It is nice to sing of a forgotten hero but instead, let two of his creations sing for him...

"Trophy of Spring" 1851

"Partridges and Ivy"

Weekend

Phoebe insisted on calling our Lincolnshire lodge a hut. It was perfect. So clean, so well-maintained and so warm and comfortable. Twenty five yards away there was an indoor swimming pool attached to Kenwick Park Hotel. On Saturday afternoon, your intrepid correspondent donned his skimpy red speedos and dived in with the rest of them. Phoebe was a like an eel as Margot relaxed in the water like a basking shark.

We really struck lucky with the weather. Mostly there was bright autumnal sunshine with a little chill in the air. On Saturday morning, we mooched around Louth, had lunch in a nice little cafe and visited the local museum. before Margot had to get back to the hut for her middle-of-the-day nap.

St Helen's Church, Little Cawthorpe

On Sunday morning, I was up bright and early, walking on a public footpath that headed south over the golf course to two villages that sit on the very edge of The Lincolnshire Wolds - Legbourne and Little Cawthorpe. The walk took just over two hours and then we set off for the coast - to the unsophisticated little resort of Mablethorpe.

We enjoyed a light lunch in Gerardo's on the high street. Beforehand, we had walked half a mile along the seafront. After visiting the lifeboat station, Phoebe was keen to write her name in the sand.

A motorcycle racing event was about to take place further along those broad sands as the tide receded. Unsurprisingly, there were a lot of bikers in town. 

In Jacksons amusement arcade, Mablethorpe

Mablethorpe is a tacky, working class resort and I had not been there in many years. The majority of visitors stay on sprawling caravan parks and hanging outside one high street souvenir shop I was amused by a T-shirt that read, "What happens in the caravan stays in the caravan". That is so Mablethorpe.

Stew and Margot

Back in Louth, we had a very late Sunday lunch in "The Woolpack Inn". It was excellent apart from the ridiculously long wait we endured before the arrival of our  desserts. Not good when you have two little girls with you and it's almost their bathtime. Ah well.

It was a great weekend that will live long in our memories even though we had to sleep in a hut.

On Kenwick Park's golf course

East

 

East? Please do not worry about my sanity. I have not been painting the word "EAST>>>" on the wall at the front of our house or anything like that. No. Let me explain.

Yesterday afternoon we headed sixty miles east with Frances, Stew and the little girls. We are staying in the lodge shown above and this my friends is another "scheduled" post. It feels a bit like cheating.

We are here for three nights on the other side of the Lincolnshire Wolds - an official "AONB" - Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. The lodge is on a country estate close to the town of Louth that I blogged about two years ago.

Yes folks - we are roughing it. The primitive frontier lodge has four bedrooms and three bathrooms and below you can see pictures of the open lounge area and the off-shot kitchen...

I expect that we will survive the experience. Back home on Monday afternoon.

Triumph

The National Theatre's Olivier Award-winning smash hit, "Dear England" has arrived at Sheffield's  Lyceum Theatre in a highly  praised national tour. And last night, Shirley and I went along to see it.

The promotional blurb said this: "It’s time to change the game. The country that gave the world football has since delivered a painful pattern of loss. The England men’s team has the worst track record for penalties in the world, and manager Gareth Southgate knows he needs to open his mind and face up to the years of hurt to take team and country back to the promised land.

Football and non-football fans alike will be brought to their feet in this joyous, five-star ‘new stage epic’ (Telegraph). From multi award-winning writer James Graham (Sherwood, BBC) and director Rupert Goold (Patriots, Cold War), Dear England tells the uplifting, at times heart-breaking, and ultimately inspiring story of Gareth Southgate’s revolutionary tenure as England manager.

David Sturzaker (Doctors, BBC) plays Gareth Southgate in this gripping examination of nation and game. He is joined by stage and screen actress Samantha Womack (EastEnders, BBC; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe) as team psychologist Pippa Grange."

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At the end, following a rapturous standing ovation, Shirley and I dashed out of the theatre  onto Arundel Gate and managed to clamber on board a Number 88 bus that took us homeward straight away. We chuckled with delight about our good luck.

I had laughed and cried during the performance. It was brilliantly staged and though not what you might call "high drama", "Dear England" was certainly very entertaining - especially for somebody like me who loves English football and cares a lot about it. 

Somewhere in our recent past, England football supporters began to sing Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" at international matches and at the end of last night's  show, the entire cast and audience sang along and danced to that familiar song. Tears ran down my cheeks.

Foxes

Visitors who have been popping into "Yorkshire Pudding" for a long time may remember that since I retired I have derived a great deal of pleasure from the Geograph photo-mapping project to which, at the last count, I have submitted 18,638 photographs.

Geograph has increased my motivation to get outside walking and it has also taught me a great deal about the geography and history of these fabulous and fascinating islands - The British Isles.

I do not know exactly how many active contributors are still sending their images to Geograph but it will be somewhere around ten thousand people who live all over this country and in Ireland too. 

In recent months, I have been impressed by fox pictures taken by a contributor called Peter Trimming. He has gathered them in West Brompton Cemetery, London. It is bang next to Stamford Bridge - the home ground of Chelsea F.C. and about a mile from where my son lives - along Lillie Road past North End Road to Fulham.

In the past, Shirley and I have explored West Brompton Cemetery. It is where the women's suffragette leader Emmeline Pankhurst is buried. Go here. During our visit, we saw squirrels and pigeons but we did not spot any foxes. They may have smelled us coming.

However, Peter Trimming has had much better luck and below I have picked just six of his magical fox pictures to share with you...

And finally, using my Google detective skills, I was able to track down a picture of  the old fox himself - the man responsible for these images. Let us applaud Peter Trimming. Such patience, such technical skill and such affection for urban foxes...

Latitude

West from our garden and out beyond the suburb of Greystones, following an invisible route that hugs Latitude 53°North like a ley line. Over the Porter Brook to the reservoirs at Redmires – thence to The Derwent Valley and out across the wild high moors that cleave northern England. There’s Manchester Airport ahead from which planes ascend like dragonflies, then onward to the low-lying Wirral Peninsula before striking out across The Irish Sea to Dublin. The way is arrow straight over those emerald fields to Galway. In front, The Atlantic Ocean heaves, its waves white-tipped.

Two thousand miles to Canada and below there’s the raw coast of Newfoundland. We travel inland to Labrador City ever westward and on to the southern end of Hudson Bay crossing uninhabited Akimiski Island before striking out over the emptiness of Northern Ontario, Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Soon the invisible line cuts across the sprawling city of Edmonton in Alberta before advancing to the mountainous coast of British Columbia and out across Hecate Strait to the Queen Charlotte Islands

And now the immensity of The Pacific Ocean confronts us till the latitude 53°N eventually brings us to Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula and The Sea of Okhotsk. From Russia to Inner Mongolia and back into Russia again where mighty Lake Baikal imagines that it is an ocean. On and on to the steppes of Kazakhstan thence to Belarus and northern Poland and into the states of Brandenburg and Lower Saxony in Germany. Still like a knife we slice across the northernmost part of The Netherlands and head over The North Sea to the Lincolnshire coast of England.

Soon the line advances to the city of Sheffield in South Yorkshire and the word “West” painted on a garden wall. As T.S. Eliot wrote in “Little Gidding”:-

“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an 

end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”

WEST>>>

Our semi-detached house was built on a hill. Consequently, as you step down the street the houses also step down. The neighbours above look down on our garden and we look down on the other side's garden.

Above us there's Tony and Jill - a lovely couple who are now well into their eighties. They have lived on this street for fifty years. Between our two houses, near the back doors, there's a brick wall with a concrete panel on top of  it.

Recently, I repainted our side of this rough-textured panel with white masonry paint. In idle moments I have often thought about adorning it with a mural - perhaps sunflowers or a giant robin but a month ago, a much  simpler idea came into my simple mind.

The garden is west facing so I thought of painting the word "WEST" upon it followed by an arrow. I know the idea is slightly bizarre but as I said to Tony and Jill when explaining it, "I am a bit mad". The design I had in mind would be reminiscent of the painted directional graphics that may still be spotted in old football stadiums.

In any case, the word "west" crops up quite a lot in our culture. "The west" is where most visitors to this blog reside and Percy Shelley wrote "Ode to The West Wind" in another October - two hundred and six years ago...

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing...

And once young men were advised to "go west" to seek their fortunes. In contrast, the expression "gone west" means to have met with death or disaster. So "west" isn't just a cardinal point, it has plenty of other connotations.

Anyway, anyway beyond the dark midnight I have hatched many wild plans. Mostly they are not followed through but this time, this time I did it as the two pictures prove - taken I might add on a rather cloudy afternoon.

Apples

A mast year is a year in which a tree bears an unusually bounteous crop of nuts or seeds and this term can also be used for fruit trees.

2025 has certainly been a remarkable year for apples here in Great Britain - a genuine mast year. Several newspapers have reported as much and people with apple trees in their gardens agree that this year has been quite special.

We have five old apple trees in our garden which we have looked out upon for thirty six years. Throughout that time, the four big trees have given us lots of green cooking apples each autumn. But this year something very odd has happened because the apples that hang from those selfsame trees have turned red for the very first time. (see picture above)

Scientists might explain that perfect growing conditions with plenty of summer sunshine will often trigger much greater production of a red pigment called anthocyanin and that seems to be what has happened to our apples.

In all previous years, our apples have been so tart they would make you wince. They have only been good for pies, crumbles and apple sauce - all requiring the addition of sugar. In spite of that history, today I thought I would try one of this year's red apples and sure enough I could eat it without squirming. 

Though not quite as sweet as many modern eating varieties, the level of sweetness was more than acceptable and I carried on to eat the whole thing. 

When it comes to apples, I might have to wait another thirty six years for a similar mast year. I will be 108 years old when that crop arrives.

Two

 

Our grandson, Zachary will be two years old next Friday. On Saturday morning, we took him to the urban farm at Hounslow. It is very close to Heathrow Airport and all the time we were there we had to experience aeroplanes rising into the sky - so low that you could easily make out the names of the carriers - from "United" to "Lufthansa". You can imagine the noise they made.

Personally, I loved Hounslow Farm because of its higgledy-piggledy amateurishness. It has clearly been there a good number of years, relying upon the goodwill of volunteers to proceed. The animals Zach saw included sheep, goats, llamas, pigs, horses, donkeys, rabbits, chickens, turkeys and ducks. In the guinea pig shed I saw a rat which was not supposed to be there. Maybe he had been invited over for lunch by the guinea pigs.

At ten thirty in the polytunnel,  two teenage girls introduced us to some small animals, including stick insects, hissing cockroaches, a diadem snake from Sudan and a soft-shelled tortoise from southern Russia. One teenage girl advised me to hold it like a hamburger. And here I am showing it to Zach...

The photos don't really reveal what a happy little chap Zach is. He loved meeting up with his grandma again but took time to warm up to his silly old grandpa. I don't blame him. This morning, we took him to Battersea Park, south of the river. It is exceedingly popular with local Londoners. They run there, ride bicycles, feed ducks, amble along, play sports like tennis or visit the popular cafes. There were hordes of them.

And here's Zach looking at you from the crotch of a tree. He can see exactly what you are doing so stop it right now!

On the way down to London by train, a famous woman sat opposite us, texting and phoning and berating a guy called Simon who was her underling assistant. It was Sharon Graham, the powerful leader of Great Britain's Unite trade union. It has over 1.2 million members. I have often seen her on television. Strangely, she did not ask for my autograph...

Absentia

 

Like yesterday's "Fossils" blogpost, this one has been "scheduled" to post via the magic of Blogger.

We are currently down in this country's sprawling metropolis. See the video at the top in which a much younger Ralph McTell sang about "The Streets of London", focusing humanely on those who are overlooked or neglected in big cities - people like shadows who nonetheless have stories to tell. Did anyone ever aim to become homeless - living out on the streets? I doubt it.

Ralph McTell is now eighty years old. I guess we are all getting older. Years flicking by, one after the other.

Yes. We are in London, visiting our grandson Zachary and his parents too. I doubt that we will see a West End Show, visit an art gallery or grip the railings outside Buckingham Palace, hoping for a glimpse of King Charles III and the true love his life - Queen Camilla. Zach will be two years old next weekend.

Hopefully, the three o'clock train from St Pancras will bring us back to Sheffield as daylight begins to wane on Sunday.

Fossils

On the mantelpiece in our front room, there's a fossil that is 180 million years old. It is an ammonite that was found on the coast of North Yorkshire. I should add that I did not find it myself. Instead, I bought it for a mere £5 in a fossil shop in Whitby. To me this was an incredible bargain. I mean - 180 million years! How amazing. Admittedly, my ammonite is only two inches in diameter but still...

Courtesy of YouTube, I have recently been following a pair of Yorkshire lads who are skilled fossil hunters. They explore remote North Yorkshire beaches  - invariably on the look out for stone nodules that may contain ammonites. These nodules are often contained within layers of shale that were formed millions of years ago in warm, tropical seas.

Unusually, in the half hour video that follows there are no spoken words. It's just one of the young fossil hunters searching the beach for promising nodules and then splitting them open with his hammer. Sometimes there's absolutely nothing within but often he finds an ammonite - viewed for the very first time by human eyes.

I found it all rather mesmerising. In fact, I have occasionally considered passing an hour or two on a remote Yorkshire beach searching for ammonites myself. The "Yorkshire Fossils" videos give you a good idea of what to look out for.

Bonio

Bonio

When the quiz team here at Yorkshire Pudding H.Q. were preparing yesterday's bones themed quiz, no one expected the wrath and indignation that the "Bonio" question would engender. It was like a volcanic eruption of unbridled disagreement.

Consequently, we contacted Bonio, the founder of "Bonio" dog biscuits but his response was couched in promotional terms. We could not get a straight answer.

He said this:-

"Dogs know their Bonio! They know the cupboard where it's kept, the sound of your hand delving into the pack - and they know the excitement as their favourite biscuit appears, closely followed by the first satisfying crunch! They love Bonio as a quick breakfast and they will be happy crunching on them whilst you pop to the shops!"

He continued:-

"There's something yummy for everyone from small pups to gentle giants with Bonio dog bisuits. Every single, yummy Bonio biscuit is lovingly and traditionally oven baked. This means that not only are these delicious dog treats totally tasty, they are also wholesome and nutritous too. Choose from our Happy Fibre, Meaty Chip, Bonio Original and Mini Dog biscuits."

Here's one very satisfied dog owner, praising the benefits of "Bonio":-

Thank you Felicity. And to conclude, here's an old "Bonio" commercial...

My sincere apologies to any quizzers who were aggrieved by the "Bonio" question. We will try to ensure that all future quiz questions are more thoroughly road-tested in order to avoid distress.