Waterfall

"The Red Lion" pub and a passing tractor in Waterfall

There is a village in the very south of The Peak District National Park called Waterfall. However, there is no waterfall there. It is believed that the name refers to the disappearance or "falling" of water in nearby streams and rivers in  summertime. In limestone country  water commonly goes underground in dry spells.

Yesterday, my silver steed, Sir Clint took just over an hour to transport me to Waterfall via Bakewell, Hartington, Warslow and Onecote. It is situated in an area of the national park where my boots had never previously trodden.

A corner of the parish church in Waterfall

Soon I was off, pausing to visit the beautiful parish church which dates from about 1100 and is dedicated to St James and St Bartholomew. I guess the early villagers couldn't pick between the two.

Then I headed through unruly meadows, following a dry stream to the dried up bed of The River Hamps. Down there I encountered several leisure cyclists following the paved track  that leads for two miles up to The River Manifold which was also devoid of water. The river valleys are deep here and the summer vegetation was often head high - protected for hundreds of years from the worst of wind and storm.

The ruins of Throwley Hall

I plodded away from the Manifold Valley up the hillside to Throwley Hall - a ruined manor house in a spectacular setting. The village of Throwley was abandoned in medieval times.

Then on to Calton where I became a little disorientated in relation to my map and lost twenty minutes of precious time. You see I had a dental appointment near home at 5.40pm. Discovering my mistake, I had to march like a soldier on a mission to cover the last mile and a half of the walk.

Old field barn near Calton

I jumped in Clint's cockpit and drove home as quickly as I could - though along the way I was stalled and tormented by three or four very slow vehicles which drew vulgar terminology from my inner library of expletives. Fortunately, the drivers could not hear this Anglo-Saxon language but Clint giggled and said "Calm down old chap!"

Securing dental appointments in these COVID days is problematic so I was delighted when the receptionist said I was okay even though I had arrived at her desk three minutes late. I mean who would want to miss out on the opportunity to have a dentist in a visor poking around inside your open mouth?

Caravan in The Manifold Valley

Aftermath

Our Yorkshire Day feast was also our Sunday dinner. Frances, Stew and Phoebe came over and as they relaxed in the front room with Grandma I sang every verse of "On Ilkley Moor Baht 'At"  in the kitchen. Let me translate that title - it means "On Ilkley Moor Without a Hat". I must confess that it is a pretty silly song but I like singing it all the same. I once sang it in a bar in the middle of Ohio as startled Americans gaped open-mouthed at the madman in their midst.

At the centre of the feast was a joint of best Yorkshire beef. This I surrounded with crispy roasted potatoes, green beans, roasted carrots and cavolo nero. Of course there was homemade beef gravy but the pièce de résistance was a large Yorkshire pudding that I made in our new roasting tin. It rose like a golden phoenix and in spite of my slight  anxiety there was no adherence to the tin whatsoever. I cut the beauteous offering  into four.

We drank Italian wine and Yorkshire beer and Shirley made a chocolate pudding for dessert. She is the only one of us who was not Yorkshire born and bred. I may not have mentioned this before but I am in a mixed marriage. She hails from Lincolnshire though she has lived in God's own county for the past forty five years.

After dinner, I carried Little Phoebe up the garden to touch leaves and observe the greenery. Her eyes follow you around now and she laughs readily. She can roll over on the floor and has good head control. Ten days ago she began the messy business of weaning and when she is in the mood she will grab her spoon and swallow what is on the end of it. 

She is not the helpless babe she was in the weeks after her birth. She listens to stories and she is fascinated by the television. Nappy (American: diaper) changes are less frequent. Phoebe is a happy, healthy and heavy Yorkshire baby - not one of those skinny plucked chicken kind of babies that you see in London parks - being pushed around by their nannies.

When F.S.&P.  had gone home, I watched the seventh episode of the fourth series of "The Handmaid's Tale". Though the acting, cinematography and music remain first rate, the script is stretching credibility and I am astonished that a fifth series has been commissioned. It's a bit like milking a cow till there's not a drop left and then milking it some more. Shame really because I loved the first three series of this dystopian tapestry.  Sometimes you need to know when to draw the line.

YORKSHIRE

It's "Yorkshire Day" today! May I take this opportunity to wish you and all other visitors to this humble Yorkshire blog a very HAPPY YORKSHIRE DAY!

Yorkshire is England's biggest ceremonial county. Our population is bigger than Scotland's thought we don't receive the advantageous  funding that Scots have  enjoyed for generations. We hope to get a big slice of that when  or if Scotland goes independent.

Official forms often ask correspondents to state their "nationality". Here in Yorkshire, I am not the only one who prefers to write "Yorkshire" rather than "British" or "English".  We are rightly proud of our wonderful and varied county with its rich history and its spirit of common sense, fairness and creativity.

We feel ourselves to be a long way from London which seems like an alien place populated by Old Etonians, bankers and newspaper editors who know little about Yorkshire and the rest of The North.

Yorkshire Day is a time for celebration. For Yorkshire puddings, Wensleydale cheese, Yorkshire curd tarts. A time for remembering Fred Trueman, Amy Johnson, The Bronte Sisters, Captain James Cook, J.B.Priestley, Andrew Marvell, Ted Hughes,  William Wilberforce and Guy Fawkes.

Yes my friends,  let us dance to  "On Ilkley Moor Baht 'At" and  then let us sing the old football refrain that has often been chanted  by vocal Hull City supporters through the decades: "Yorkshire! Yorkshire! Yorkshire!" The lyrics are easy to grasp.

Despair

 

Whose garden was this? It must have been lovely

Did it have flowers? I've seen pictures of flowers

And I'd love to have smelled one

Whose river was this?

You say it ran freely?

Blue was its color?

I've seen blue in some pictures,

And I'd love to have been there.

Tell me again, I need to know

The forests had trees, the meadows were green

The oceans were blue and birds really flew

Can you swear that was true?

I first heard this song by Tom Paxton in 1970. As an environmental protest song, it was ahead of its time. It imagines a world in which Nature is denuded - a world in which flowers, gardens  and trees live only in human memory.

Fifty years since the song first surfaced, its warning message remains more relevant than ever. All over this over-populated planet Nature is in retreat largely  because of mankind's short-sighted carelessness or perhaps our indifference. Forests are shrinking as deserts spread. Birdsong is declining along with the humming of insects.

Wild mammals are disappearing at an alarming rate as are the creatures that inhabit our oceans - some of them not yet even discovered. It's enough to fill your heart with despair.

I think of a desperate, malnourished polar bear floating away to oblivion on a  a raft of  ice as Tom Paxton sings the background song  or perhaps the  film makers would choose the late Vera Lynn's version instead. If only our politicians, influencers and leaders of commerce and industry were listening. Soon it will be too late.

Clifton

Old advertising on the former "Cross Keys" pub in North Clifton

Most English people are keenly interested in weather forecasts. This is undoubtedly because we enjoy a changeable maritime climate. You never know what you are going to get upon this island on the edge of Europe.

One of the "favourites" stored on my laptop for quick access is the BBC Weather site. There I regularly look at five locations. It's like a compass. I have our city suburb in the centre. North is Penistone. South is Chesterfield. West is Tideswell . East is Worksop. The differing forecasts for these locations frequently determine where I will go when I fancy a good long walk. I like to avoid being rained on if at all possible.

The Old Nurseries in South Clifton

Today I headed east - beyond Worksop and across The River Trent via the toll bridge at Dunham - not Old Tasker Dunham but Dunham-on-Trent. Once across the river, Clint grumbled "Are we nearly there yet?" and I told him that we were. 

Together we breezed into the village of North Clifton which is a mile and a half from South Clifton. Charmingly peaceful villages with numerous attractive homes, they nevertheless have few community facilities - no pubs, no bakeries, no blacksmiths, no shops. Once they had all of these - in the days when villages were vibrant living entities and not dormitories for retirees, incomers and commuters.

Detail of redundant phone box in Spalford

I left Clint snoozing in North Clifton and set off on a ten mile walk over rich agricultural land  and finally along the east bank of The River Trent. I passed a huge field of carrots and another huge field of ridiculously healthy maize. In neither field did I see a single bird and only a handful of insects. In modern farming, it seems that  the quest for profitability means that insects and birds are just an irritation . 

From mid-afternoon, I kept looking at my watch - knowing that I had to get home to make the evening meal - for Frances, Stew and Phoebe would be there. At 4.15pm I was back on the toll bridge at Dunham and at 5.30pm I was chopping onions in the kitchen - the first step as I created a tasty vegetarian curry from scratch.

The Trent west of  North Clifton

Beer

In this humble Yorkshire blog, I have written about beer before. Lord knows how many gallons of the stuff I have consumed in my life. I think about an enormous oil tanker passing a headland far out to sea. The capacity of that vessel probably represents the volume of beer I have sunk in my life thus far. More than an Olympic swimming pool...more than The Aral Sea. Glug-glug-glug!

Consequently, you can imagine the beacon-like glow of pride I felt when I recently held my first cold can of "Bosh!" beer by "Brewdog". I am not talking about the non-alcoholic version that I blogged about in January of this year but proper "Bosh!" beer with a 5% alcohol content.

Many readers may not realise that the majority of  beers are not vegan. Though created from plants and water, most brewers use fish products or "finings" when clarifying the liquid. The production of "Bosh!" beer does not involve the use of  fish products. It is wholly vegan.

To see my only son's name on the side of a can of beer - well I wouldn't have been prouder if he had won The Nobel Peace Prize. We ordered two cartons of "Bosh!" beer from "Brewdog" after receiving a free carton from our lovely Ian. Maybe I should order more but I do not feel good about putting the empty cans in our recycling bin.

Finally, specially for visitors from the USA, here's a different can of beer I bought recently from our local "Lidl" store. Do you recognise the brand? I am not sure if you can buy it in America - maybe it's only available in Springfield:-

Joking

When I wrote that stuff on your Geography book

I was only joking.
I was only joking when I tripped you up.
I never meant to hurt you.
I was only joking when I left that comment on Facebook
It was just a bit of fun.
I was only joking when I put itching powder between your sheets
I got it from the joke shop along with the fart powder.
I was only joking when I listed your house on Right Move.
I thought you would laugh at the description and the price.
I was only joking when I said your sister had fallen on the ice.
Seems like you can't have a laugh any more.

We were only joking when we handcuffed you naked to that lamppost the night before your wedding.

It was just the normal high jinx connected with stag nights
I was only joking when I painted the big red cross on your front door
Lighten up - it will easily come off with some turps and a cloth.
I was only joking when I put small pencil crosses in the boxes for Trump and Johnson
They seemed such fun guys - like cuddly circus clowns.
We were only joking when we hi-jacked those planes that morning
Why must people take everything so seriously these days?

After  all, I was only joking.