Song

Another song. Another earworm. 

This one was written by Billy Joel in 1989 when he was forty. He had had a contretemps with a much younger man who imagined that only his generation had it tough and people of Joel's age had had  it easy. Joel bristled at this and the seeds of "We Didn't Start The Fire" were sown. I suppose he was attempting to say that in his life there had been many crises, many issues, famous people coming and going. The young man had been badly mistaken.

It is a fast-paced list song with references to  120 figures and events and places from post-war history. Not long after releasing the song, Billy Joel indicated some private irritation about it. He grew to dislike it but personally,  I think that it is both clever and evocative as it quickly rolls out dozens of references to historical times and famous figures that are all familiar to me - and probably to you too.

Here are the lyrics so that you can sing along to the video that follows:-

Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnnie Ray
South Pacific, Walter Winchell, Joe DiMaggio
Joe McCarthy, Richard Nixon, Studebaker, television
North Korea, South Korea, Marilyn Monroe
Rosenbergs, H-bomb, Sugar Ray, Panmunjom
Brando, The King and I, and The Catcher in the Rye
Eisenhower, vaccine, England's got a new queen
Marciano, Liberace, Santayana, goodbye

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

Joseph Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser, and Prokofiev
Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc
Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, Dacron
Dien Bien Phu falls, "Rock Around the Clock"
Einstein, James Dean, Brooklyn's got a winning team
Davy Crockett, Peter Pan, Elvis Presley, Disneyland
Bardot, Budapest, Alabama, Khrushchev
Princess Grace, Peyton Place, trouble in the Suez

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

Little Rock, Pasternak, Mickey Mantle, Kerouac
Sputnik, Zhou En-Lai, Bridge on the River Kwai
Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball
Starkweather homicide, children of thalidomide
Buddy Holly, Ben-Hur, space monkey, mafia
Hula-hoops, Castro, Edsel is a no-go
U-2, Syngman Rhee, payola, and Kennedy
Chubby Checker, Psycho, Belgians in the Congo

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it

Birth control, Ho Chi Minh, Richard Nixon back again
Moonshot, Woodstock, Watergate, punk rock
Begin, Reagan, Palestine, terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran, Russians in Afghanistan
Wheel of Fortune, Sally Ride, heavy metal suicide
Foreign debts, homeless vets, AIDS, crack, Bernie Goetz
Hypodermics on the shore, China's under martial law
Rock-and-roller cola wars, I can't take it anymore

We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning
We didn't start the fire

But when we are gone, it will still burn on
And on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on
We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it
We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it
We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire
No, we didn't light it, but we tried to fight it
We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning

I can't say that I have ever been a Billy Joel fan but I do like this very original composition. I find myself asking - What is the fire? Perhaps just the ever-burning wildfire of history - raging through the decades and somehow out of control. And I also find myself wondering how the end verses of the song might appear if brought up to 2026.... I have got my thinking cap on now my friends...

David Bowie, Putin, right wing back again

Bezos, Taylor Swift, Islamic terrorists

Climate crisis, Ukraine War, "Kafka on The Shore"

Mar-a-Lago, Zuckerberg, Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Queen of England in her grave, Thomas Crooks close shave

Pandemic, A.I., Harry Potter, air fry

We didn't start the fire... etc..

Awry

East Midlands Railway crest a Derby Station

Some days one's plans go awry and that is how it was for me today.

I wanted a little adventure that would include a six mile walk in the Staffordshire countryside west of Derby. My initial target was a small market town called Uttoxeter - somewhere I had never been before. Rather than driving down there, I decided to travel by train and booked a return ticket last night. It would involve changing trains at Derby.

I arrived in Derby at the scheduled time but then heard an announcement over the tannoy: "The 11.26 train to Crewe via Uttoxeter has been cancelled". I walked out of Derby railway station and headed for the bus station but as luck would have it I had just missed the bus to Uttoxeter so headed back to the railway station, intending to catch the 12.26 train.

Derby ram sculpture by Michael Pegler

I sat by platform 4A reading a novel and was so engrossed that when my train pulled up I was in a slight panic. I put the novel in my backpack and jumped on the train. Halfway to Uttoxeter I realised I had left my camera in its case next to where I had been sitting. During my little walk around Derby I had taken a handful of photographs and they accompany this writing.

St Peter's Church, Derby

Upon reaching Uttoxeter, I decided to postpone the walk I had planned but I did manage to visit the town's little museum and the parish church. Back at the station, I was disgruntled to see that the 14.14 train back to Derby had been cancelled and I would have to wait for the 15.14. By the way, it was a very hot day - the kind of day where you seek the cool of shadows and of course internally I kept berating myself for stupidly mislaying my Panasonic Lumix.

Anyway, I finally made it back to Derby and was directed to the station supervisor. He made a call to the Platform 4 supervisor and joy-upon-joy - my lost camera had been found. I tried to give the platform supervisor a small financial reward but he was having none of it, saying it would be against East Midlands Railway policy. However, I insisted and said if he didn't want to buy himself a pint of beer with the money  he could stick it in a charity box. 

"The Station Inn", Derby

Then I prepared to catch the 16.26 train back to Sheffield and it was also when I entered a mindblowing "bing bong" maze.

"Bing bong  - The 16.26 train to Sheffield has been delayed by ten minutes. It will now leave at 16.36."

"Bing bong - The 16.26 train to Sheffield has been delayed by a further seven  minutes. It will now leave at 16.43."

"Bing bong - Following an incident at Spondon the 16.26 train to Sheffield has now been cancelled. Passengers should instead prepare to board the 17.11 train to Sheffield via Chesterfield."

"Bing  bong - The 17.11 train to Sheffield will now leave at 17.32. Passengers should proceed to Platform 1"

"Bing bong - The 17.11 train to Sheffield has now been cancelled. Passengers should return to Platform 5"

And so the bing bongs continued. It was hard to keep track of it all but at 17.45, I managed to board a crowded train back to Sheffield and what is more - I bagged a seat! Hurrah! Not all passengers enjoyed that luxury.

Box-Tree Moth on a brass memorial plaque in Derby Station. 

This invader was first seen in Great Britain in 2008

And then on Arundel Gate here in Sheffield, I had to wait ages for a bus home. Apparently, there had been a road accident a few hundred yards back along the route . I am not a taxi kind of guy but with two people I know - Bob and Glenda I shared an Uber back to our area and I was dropped outside our house.

This was not how my Uttoxeter day was meant to turn out but much to my relief, I still have my camera. I hope to return to Uttoxeter before too long. To use film director jargon, it will be "Take Two!" 

Urban oasis at Midland Place

Gallery

 Last Thursday afternoon, Little Miss Bossyboots (aka Margot) was sitting on my knee here at this desk. There were some "Post-It" notes in front of us. Quickly, I drew the shape of a cartoon head - Margot's head - and asked her if she wanted a happy face or a sad face. "Happy face!" she said. "Happy Margot" - then I drew "Sad Margot" and "Pussycat Margot".

Later I drew other heads - without Margot on my knee. Before too long I had done twenty four heads. I affixed them to the side of the big bookcase in this study.

Just after three o'clock, I marched down to Phoebe's school to pick her up and bring her back to our house. As soon as she saw the new Margot "Post-It" gallery, Phoebe became jealous and wondered where her "Post-It" pictures were so I promised I would make  some of her. Just three more to go and she will also have twenty four little cartoon images.

It's all a rather silly idea but grandpas are allowed to be silly I think. It's in the job description. Anyway, how the hell are you meant to pass your time when you are a retired old geezer waiting for the end of life?

Zombie

Well I have felt like a zombie today but don't worry. I am a happy zombie.

After winning last night's pub quiz with my two pals, I came home knowing that I still had a long night ahead of me. I was determined to stay up to watch England's knockout game with Mexico beamed live to our house from The Azteca Stadium in Mexico City. Thank you BBC!

For a couple of hours I roamed around the internet, visiting blogs and the latest news - such as Trump's blatant interference in a red card decision. With the obsequious aid of his slimy buddy Gianni Infantino, the grifting FIFA president, Trump managed to get US player Folarin Balogun's red card rescinded, allowing him to play in tonight's match with Belgium. The whole thing stinks like, well, like a smelly trump (American: fart)!

Anyway as one in the morning approached, it was time to switch our television on but damn me - the kick-off time had been delayed for an hour because of heavy rain in Mexico City. So it was back to the computer where I learned how to make a parcel bomb, read about The Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne who died in Aachen, Germany in 814AD and successfully blew away the latest "Wordle" challenge.

Now two o' clock was looming so I sat on the sofa with cushions stacked behind me to make my sitting position a little uncomfortable. You see, I obviously did not want to fall asleep. I pressed the remote and watched our lads singing "God Save the King" in lusty unison. The Mexico team's singing was equally committed as they launched into "Mexicans, at the Cry of War":-

Mexicans, at the cry of war,

Assemble the steel and the bridle,

And may the Earth tremble to its core

To the resounding roar of the cannon. 

And what a hell of a battle the game was! You can read match reports elsewhere but let me just say that I was immensely proud of our national team last night. They battled against the odds at high altitude in front of incredibly loud home supporters to scrape home by three goals to two. Mexico losing in the Azteca stadium is as rare as a Dinagat moonrat. Almost unheard of.

England were severely handicapped by the sending off of our full back Jarell Quansah in the fifty fourth minute. This means that he will not be allowed to play in our quarter final match with Norway... unless of course those two grifting slimeballs get his card rescinded too! Fat chance of that.

It was approaching five o'clock this morning when I finally crawled into bed with happy TV memories of what had just transpired  5500 miles  from here. Before I dozed off, Shirley asked, "What was the score?" She couldn't believe it.

Come on England!

*Image at the top; "Head of a Man" by L.S.Lowry (1938)

Annapolis

Stan & Joe

In my travels, I never visited Annapolis, Maryland in the USA and it is highly unlikely that I will ever go there. But if I did I would head straight for Stan and Joe's Saloon on West Street. There I might order a nice cool American beer in a tall glass while waiting for their classic reuben sandwich with a garden salad.

However, that would not be my principal reason for venturing to Annapolis. I would be there to visit the parking lot that is right behind Stan & Joe's place. Overlooking that unexceptional car park is a rather special mural. It celebrates the life of one Eva Cassidy (1963-1996). She was born and raised in Maryland and that's where she died so tragically young.

Fortunately, today we have access to something quite magical on the internet - Google Streetview - and by using that facility I was able to look into the parking lot  in order to catch a glimpse of Eva Cassidy's mural. Here it is:-

To tell you the truth, I think Eva deserves a more prominent mural. What there is is okay but it is tucked away in the corner of a parking lot like an apology or a secret.

She had such a divine voice. Her imperfections made her delivery perfect. Three British radio presenters - Terry Wogan, Paul Jones and Mike Harding played a big part in  bringing this Maryland songstress to the attention of the world and they were right to do so. What a crime it would have been if she had vanished into obscurity.

In recent days, "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" had been playing in my mind over and over with lyrics by a dreamy fellow called Yip Harburg. However, in my humble opinion, nobody ever sang that song as well as Eva Cassidy did it. She owned the song and imbued it with a sense of longing that is in every human heart. Please listen...

Independence

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

From the top

E. Jean Carroll, Alex Pretti, Nicole Good, James Comey, Four of the Epstein victims, Brian Sicknick (State Capitol police officer), Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton

Keats

 

Ode to A Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

By John Keats

⦿

John Keats was only twenty four years old when he wrote this poem. The year was 1819 - the very pinnacle of his creative life. Eighteen months later he would be dead - in spite of journeying to Rome for the supposed health benefits of a warmer climate. It was tuberculosis that got him. A lot of people died young in the first half of the nineteenth century here in England. The average life expectancy in 1820 was about forty years.

"Ode to a Nightingale" was most likely written in just one day in late April or early May 1819 in a house by Hampstead Heath, London that was owned or rented by Keats's friend Charles Armitage Brown. You can visit that same house today. It is now known as The Keats House and is dedicated to the poet with personal items to be seen.

The poem reflects on the nature of life and how it will all end. It is as if the nightingale became his muse on the day of the famous ode's creation.

Attempting to sum up the poem, one critic said this: "The principal stress of the poem is a struggle between ideal and actual: inclusive terms which, however, contain more particular antitheses of pleasure and pain, of imagination and common sense reason, of fullness and privation, of permanence and change, of nature and the human, of art and life, freedom and bondage, waking and dream."

The painting at the top of this blogpost was by another of Keats's friends - Joseph Severn. It was created almost twenty five years after Keats's death and recollects the poet's reverie in the garden of the Hampstead Heath house on the day "Ode to a Nightingale" was written. Severn painted many pictures of his famous friend. It became a steady source of income for him.

To better appreciate the poem you may need to read it two or three times and I advise reciting it aloud to tap into the musicality of the lines. It's not like reading a novel or a newspaper article or the majority of blogposts. You need to be in a - how can I say this - a more absorbent, more open state of mind.

Comparison

What do you think about different corned beef brands? All of us could do with expert advice as I am sure it is a pressing issue for all corned beef consumers. That is why I turned to Bald Foodie Guy...

Bald Foodie Guy lives in the north west of England and I must declare explicitly that HE IS NOT ME!

There's a lot of stuff happening out there in the world right now. From religious wars to grifting presidents and from A.I. to the rise of the right. It's hard to keep your eyes on things that really matter - like selecting the best corned beef brands from discount supermarkets. Thank you Bald Foodie Guy!

Lions

You might expect lions to inhabit the grassy plains of Africa but here in South Yorkshire we have got plenty of lions - lurking about urban areas. They all belong to an art and charity project called "Pride of Yorkshire". Its ultimate purpose is to raise extra funds for Sheffield Children's Hospital.

There are in total one hundred and fifty adult lions to spot. All of them have been individually decorated - mostly by professional artists and community groups. There are also a hundred and fifty smaller lion cubs. When the project reaches its conclusion in September, the lions will be auctioned off.

Now I have no intention of tracking down all three hundred lions but this week I have taken pictures of several of the beasts in and around Sheffield City Centre. And because I am a generous kind of guy, I am sharing a few of those images here in this blogpost.

And on the subject of lions, there are three lions on the badge of the England football team. Tonight, in Atlanta, our lads needed to fight back like lions in order to beat The Democratic Republic of Congo by two goals to one. They were ably led by our captain - Harry Kane - who scored both of our goals. When the second one went in, I yelled at our television screen, "What a hero!" Harry Kane even looks like a lion!

Next up it's Mexico in Mexico City in the early hours of our Monday morning. That won't be easy, even with Harry Kane at the helm. But you never know. COME ON ENGLAND!

Art

In the centre of this Yorkshire city you will find The Winter Gardens and connected with that large, modern glasshouse you soon find yourself in The Millennium Galleries. I had heard that there was a new exhibition there based upon "Football Art Prize" entries so I went there to check it out.

This is what the gallery blurb said by way of explanation:-

The Football Art Prize makes a welcome return to Sheffield to celebrate the passion, drama and unity the beautiful game inspires around the globe.

Coinciding with the 2026 FIFA World Cup, the Prize showcases the work of over 60 UK and international artists. See the heartfelt highs and lows on the pitch, the players that give it their all, and the dedication of the loyal fans who follow them, captured through a striking array of painting, drawing, photography, film and video.

I love football and I love art so what a great combination for me. Some of the exhibits were just so-so and I didn't think much of the overall winning piece - a video on a loop showing an Asian woman doing "keep-uppies" with a football.

My favourite exhibit by far was the picture of the French international midfielder N'Golo Kante shown at the top of this blogpost. It is not a photograph. It is a charcoal drawing by self-taught Kanmi Olukanni who said that the picture was inspired by Kante's man-of-the-match performance for Chelsea in The UEFA Champions League Cup Final of 2021. The picture has glass protection so I am sorry about the reflections. I tried my best.

Here are four more exhibits that caught my eye:-

From the top... the first one is a photograph of some boys playing football on a huge landfill site  in  Sylhet, Bangladesh. It is where they work, making tiny amounts of money from recycling other people's waste. The lad in the middle of the group is wearing an Argentina shirt.

The second item is an oil painting of a night game at Upton Park in London - the former home of West Ham United. Shirley and I once saw Hull City play The Hammers there. The painting is called, "Upton Park Days". It reminded me of standing on the Bunker's Hill Terrace at Hull City's old ground - Boothferry Park.

The third item is another photograph. It shows an artificial football pitch in a remote coastal location to the north east of Greenland. The photographer found the contrast between harsh terrain and a familiar field design appealing. By the way, has Trump grabbed Greenland yet as he once threatened to do?

Lastly it's an acrylic painting of the tough Irish midfielder - Roy Keane. It's after his football career has finished. The painter, Kyle King-Jagger has put him in a sandwich shop and titled the painting, "Roy's Rolls". Roy appears to be selling prawn sandwiches which he once derided as the halftime food choice of football club board members.

After visiting the exhibition, I sat in Tudor Square for half an hour and drank cold water from my flask while reading the book I am grinding my way through at present. I will tell you about when I'm done. Then I bought two T-shirts from "Blacks" on The Moor before catching a bus home. 

Earlier I had walked all the way into the city centre. That takes forty five minutes from our house. But the weather was fine and I had the time so why not?

Inside Sheffield's Winter Gardens earlier today

Bossyboots

Yesterday afternoon,we looked after Little Miss Bossyboots while Phoebe and her parents went to see "Toy Story 5" at the cinema. When two year old Margot heard that they were on their way back to our house, she insisted on waiting for them in the street. She even took out her little green chair and Shirley had to sit with her for half an hour. Lord knows why Phoebe & Co took so long. Meanwhile, I was busy cooking our Sunday dinner.

They said that "Toy Story 5" had been quite brilliant  and so I pledged to see it myself.

After another great Sunday dinner prepared by Yorkshire's answer to Gordon Ramsey, we ate a lovely, light strawberry vanilla cheesecake that Shirley had prepared from scratch. That also went down a treat. Stewart's mother Cheryl was with us but she doesn't eat desserts apart from fresh fruit so we gave her strawberries and raspberries.

When they had gone home, I caught the 88 bus up to Bents Green for  "The Hammer and Pincers" pub quiz with my chums - Mick and Mike. We did not win and couldn't even get the anagram question - "Which is the only word in the English language that is an anagram of CARTHORSE?"*

For our quizzes, Mick always brings scrap paper on which we can work out anagrams etc.. The lads are very used to me doodling on those pieces of paper. I have done it for years while talking with them or dealing with quiz questions. I normally draw faces and I used to do it in teachers' meetings too. I find that the act of doodling helps me to think.

Over the years, I must have doodled hundreds of faces. Mostly those doodles are thrown away but last night I thought I would save my idle doodles for you to see and maybe psycho-analyse...

These pictures are available for sale as I hope to raise funds for a deserving charity. Please put in your bids. The charity is The Yorkshire Pudding Holiday Fund.

Oh - and by the way- today was cloudy and a lot cooler so I caught a bus into the city centre. I was there to watch the lunchtime screening of "Toy Story 5". It was very good but the consummation of friendship between the two little girls - Bonnie and Blaze seemed to take forever. Still the animation was as stupendous as in the four previous "Toy Story" films and I am glad that I bothered. It was great that a key feature of the plot involved weighing up the alienating and isolating effects of "tech" - including tablets and other devices in comparison with more traditional toys that encourage imaginative play and social connection.

*= ORCHESTRA

Yomping

This past week, most days have been so hot here in sub-tropical Yorkshire that long walks in the countryside would have been foolhardy. However, by Saturday, a change in the weather seemed to be occurring with slightly reduced heat and a welcome buffeting breeze to clear the air.

Shirley was doing her regular volunteer shift at the "Age Concern" charity shop  so after a light lunch of boiled eggs and baked beans I decided to go out for a walk west of this northern city.  Sensibly, I guzzled a pint of water before driving away from home.

I parked Butch at Redmires Reservoirs and then headed out to one of my favourite places in the entire world - tiny Oaking Clough Reservoir with its curious stone building. See the top picture. I have blogged about it before. Go here and here.

When I got there, I noticed a few things. First, a rotund hiker had just arrived from the opposite direction. He was standing looking at his smartphone and we were the only two people in that landscape at that moment in time. When I came up to him, I said "Hello" which seemed to startle him and he mumbled something unintelligible. Perhaps he was slightly annoyed that I had disturbed his Facebooking or whatever it is that people do on those blasted devices.

Secondly, I noticed a family of Canada geese. They seemed alarmed by my sudden appearance - which I can well understand. They had just been chilling out by the water's edge. Not many humans ever visit Oaking Clough. Incidentally,  may I say to any Canadians reading this blogpost - why can't you keep your ruddy geese in your own country?  We have got enough of our own geese over here

Thirdly on the boarded up window on one side of the little stone window I saw this odd message:-

Needless to say, I won't be phoning. But while I was there - checking out both sides of the abandoned building - and not for the first time - I revisited the idea of sleeping out there one night. Maybe I am slightly mad because I wish I could expunge that niggling notion from my mind. After all, the tiny lodge is probably haunted by the ghosts of water workers or grouse shooters. No Mr Pudding - do NOT go there!

Soon it was time to strike out west from Oaking Clough. There are no footpaths in that tranche of moorland and that is why I had brought my compass with me. West for a mile and a half would bring me to the rim of Stanage Edge.

Bog cotton

The terrain was difficult - with bogs and heather and bracken and occasionally ruined vegetation - previously burnt by agents of the grouse shooting fraternity. It was exhausting but, after longer than I anticipated, I made it to the very edge of Yorkshire and what was once the edge of the ancient kingdom of Northumbria. 

In need of rest, I sat upon an ancient millstone grit boulder and looked over to Win Hill and down the valley to Hathersage as a gentle wind fitfully cooled me. There was hardly anybody else around.

After five minutes, I was up and off, treading that familiar path, passing High Neb and on to The Long Causeway that Roman soldiers walked as they traversed The North in centuries further back than the evolution of Northumbria and Mercia.

It was later than I had planned so I kept marching past Stanage Pole and along the edge of Broadshaw  Plantation before dropping down to the reservoirs at Redmires which happen to be the source of our domestic water supply.

It had been a damned good workout but I had more work to do - making our evening meal - ahead of another nervy England football match. Fortunately justice was done - we beat Panama by two goals to nil. 

Onward now to the Congo Democratic Republic. Is it truly "Democratic"? Who knows?

The only stile on Stanage Edge

Identification

When it comes to garden plants, I don't pay them a lot of attention - unless they are vegetables or bear edible fruit. Otherwise, I like plants that fill spaces and look after themselves - often competing for pre-eminence - as in wild Nature.

I cannot remember when we planted two spiky plants in one of our borders - nor where we acquired them. They have just been there, managing to survive in spite of the shade and the competition.But a week ago I noticed that one of those plants was starting to push out some kind of flowering spike. It had never happened before.

That flowering spike is quite large - around five feet. And so I became curious. What on earth is this plant that dares to create such a display? 

I could be wrong and plant experts like Steve Reed or Poppy Patchwork could easily correct me but I think the plant is a yukka filamentosa - sometimes known as Adam's Needle. It is, I believe, native to the south-eastern states of America.

Recently we have been having some very hot weather here in Yorkshire and I wonder if that is what has encouraged the plant to bloom for the first time. Meanwhile the sister plant is looking on with no sign of a similar flowering spike pushing skywards.

But I will keep an eye on her. You never know, she might have  got the message too.

Background

I am well aware that when "Poem" is the title of one of my blogposts, viewing figures will plunge. A lot of people - though thankfully not all - have an antipathy towards poetry. But to me she is a familiar bedfellow, by my side for well over six decades.

As a teacher of English, I often had to grapple with the habitual and obstinate grumble, "I don't like poetry!" It was a prejudice that ignored the delight that most people find in song lyrics or that small children find in nursery rhymes or when people choose epitaphs. The retort also niggled me because I simply could not understand it. It seemed so sadly misguided.

There's a notion out there in the world that poetry is somehow snobbish, highfalutin and cast down from ivory towers but I think of it as a vehicle for getting to the very core of things. Every word should matter and there should be no excess. Poetry should speak truly but sometimes mysteriously too.

When I was seven years old, I was up in my bedroom writing in an exercise book. Something clicked and I made my own, original poem about a hero venturing out to do battle against the forces of evil. I wish I still had that poem but I don't.

Mum was calling my family to the tea table and I came downstairs with my exercise book. I asked them to listen to my poem and I stood in the doorway that led to the stairs then rather proudly I read that poem out aloud. And you know what? There was no applause - just an astonished pause followed immediately by hearty familial laughter.

It was not a funny poem but I guess that there is something rather funny about a seven year old boy in short trousers reciting a self-penned poem to his family. It was not the sort of thing that happened in the heart of East Yorkshire. Seven year old boys climbed trees, played football or picked caterpillars off cabbage leaves. They did not write poems about knights of yore on white horses.

And so we come to yesterday's poem - "Nileometer". It was conceived yesterday morning and quickly went through three drafts. It was finished by teatime but I didn't read it aloud to Shirley and Phoebe - fearing mirth perhaps.

Inspiration was drawn from the idea of a cruise boat passing a succession of random scenes along the Nile - just gliding by. And I thought of the Nileometer on Elephantine Island where ancient Egyptians measured water levels and it seemed that that is what my poem was doing - measuring, taking stock...

And here's something else that features in the poem. It's the pyramid-like hill that overlooks The Valley of the Kings which may be the very reason that later pharaohs chose that location for their tombs. I did not know about the hill until I went there...

To make a poem you have to have an idea for one. That seems pretty obvious. Not exactly a detailed recipe but some kind of inspiration. And when you have got your first draft down you need to look at what you have written -  tweaking it, picking away at words, editing, replacing, questioning yourself. You become like a French polisher, addressing small faults, applying wax and buffing up. I don't think you are ever fully satisfied.

Yesterday, I was very pleased with myself. There was no hanging about, no prevarication. I just got on with it, riding the wave of my idea and there the poem was - done. Like a loaf of bread fresh from the oven.

So different from my currently shelved poem, "Stanage Edge". I embarked on that one in November and thought it would be helpful to take my time for once, let it ferment like wine in a barrel but I haven't gone back to it in many weeks. Maybe my changed method choice was wrong but I will return to it soon and there will be another "Poem" blogpost. Readers will no doubt scurry for shelter. After all, too much exposure to poetry could damage your health.