Wild

"Oh baby, baby it's a wild world..." Well  I tell you up at Marsden on the northern tip of the Peak District it really is - wild I mean. It's an area I have never explored or walked in before but I felt like getting well out of my normal walking comfort zones to seek unfamiliar territory.

On Thursday morning, I set off just after nine o'clock and one hour later I reached my far distant Pennine destination - parking close to Marsden's little public park and its proud war memorial. Spawned by the woollen industry, this overgrown village sits deep in the Colne Valley, overlooked by lofty farms and treeless moors. The main road through it leads over northern England's rugged spine to Oldham and thence to Manchester. There be dragons!

A huge nineteenth century woollen mill still sits in the valley bottom surrounded by humble wool workers' cottages even though its machines ceased for the last time in 2003. In its heyday, it must have provided hundreds of jobs, bringing people and prosperity to this wild forgotten corner of Yorkshire.. 

For a number of years, I have been aware that one of England's best living poets was born and raised in Marsden. His name is Simon Armitage and on the walking route I planned, I especially wanted to take in the little reservoir at Black Moss. Armitage referred to it in this poem:-

It ain't what you do, it's what it does to you.

I have not bummed across America
with only a dollar to spare, one pair
of busted Levi’s and a bowie knife.
I have lived with thieves in Manchester.

I have not padded through the Taj Mahal,
barefoot, listening to the space between
each footfall, picking up and putting down
its print against the marble floor. But I

skimmed flat stones across Black Moss on a day
so still I could hear each set of ripples
as they crossed. I felt each stone’s inertia
spend itself against the water; then sink.

I have not toyed with a parachute cord
while perched on the lip of a light aircraft;
but I held the wobbly head of a boy
at the day centre, and stroked his fat hands.

And I guess that the lightness in the throat
and the tiny cascading sensation
somewhere inside us are both part of that
sense of something else. That feeling, I mean.

Before setting off I needed a lavatory and located one in the little town's library. Don't worry - I shall not elaborate at this juncture but the visit was most satisfying! Then I set off - passing two reservoirs that sit in the Wessenden Valley. Soon I joined the Pennine Way, climbing up to the saturated, spongy and windswept moors known as Black Moss. The reservoir itself is very bleak - with a sister reservoir called Swellands nearby. Thank heavens the National Trust or the Peak District Authority have paved most of the path with great blocks of gritstone. Without them walkers would often be up to their knees in peaty gunge.

I have often skimmed stones across water and know the kind of flat stones to look out for but disappointingly I couldn't see any such stones around the reservoir - besides the geology wouldn't be right for them. So I wondered where Simon Armitage had found his skimming stones. Perhaps he brought some up there with him.

Afterwards, I descended to Redbrook Reservoir and then along the Stanedge Trail back to Marsden where I enjoyed a bowl of delicious homemade tomato and pesto soup in a cafe called "Crumbles on the Corner". There was a charity shop in the village called "The Cuckoo's Nest" where I happily deposited a bundle of back copies of "Gardeners' World" - they had been sitting in my car's boot (US - trunk) for several days. Then it was back to Sheffield feeling re-energised and delighted to have yet more proof that Yorkshire really is God's own county.

Some pictures:-

Blakeley and Butterley Reservoirs

Old barn above Netherley

At Black Moss Reservoir - no "flat stones" to skim...

The beach at Black Moss Reservoir - still no "flat stones".

"The Great Western Inn" by Redbrook Reservoir

Rainbow over Marsden - see the now disused woollen mill in the valley.

Sheep posing above Marsden - she said her name was Katherine.

Aprons

This afternoon I made a chilli sauce using my own secret recipe. I was wearing the white shirt I had donned for yesterday's funeral - once again neglecting the two aprons that hang forlornly on a coat hook behind our kitchen door. Surprise, surprise my lovely shirt is now spotted with indelible chilli juice which is co-incidentally burning through the white cotton like nitric acid.

The apron is an eminently sensible invention. It has at least two useful qualities in the kitchen. Firstly, it protects your everyday clothes from spitting food or spills. Secondly, it is an aid to good kitchen hygiene. Behind the scenes in professional kitchens, chefs always wear appropriate clothing - including aprons.

Let us move now to the thorny subject of TV chefs. Have you noticed that they very rarely wear aprons - preferring to demonstrate their kitchen skills whilst sporting designer fashions or - in the case of The Hairy Bikers - jumble sale cast-offs? Although I cannot bear bully-boy Gordon Ramsay, I must admit that he is unusual amongst TV chefs in that he normally dresses appropriately whilst marauding around his kitchens like Benito Mussolini after an all night rave.

The others - Jamie Oliver, Delia Smith, James Martin, Nigella Lawson, Lorraine Pascale et al all seem to think it's okay to be apronless when inspiring viewers to up their culinary games. Why aren't they thinking about food hygiene? Why aren't they setting a good example for younger viewers? Perhaps if they always wore aprons, my own now disintegrating white shirt would have been saved!

Apronless Nigella Lawson stirs a Yorkshire pudding
mixture in her designer kitchen as Charles Saatchi watches
on with a besom broom ready to thrash his ex-wife
for deliberately burning his breakfast sausage.

Apronless Jamie Oliver is an expert tosser. Here
he is tossing some  exotic vegetables before drizzling extra
virgin oliver oil all over them whilst spouting Cockney
terms like "lovely jubbly". What a cheeky
Cockney chappie he is! (Also a multi-millionaire)

Apart from medieval torture, this is what Jamie, Nigella and the rest of them need:-

Ordinariness

Let's get something down about ordinary life.

This evening I caught the Number 88 bus home from Bents Green where I had attended the Tuesday night quiz in "The Hammer and Pincers". With my chums Mick and Mike we didn't win the  quiz but we won £12 on the "Irish Bingo". You have a small random pack of cards - thirteen in fact - and the cardmaster calls out cards as he withdraws them from the master pack. As the cards are called you gradually reduce the size of your own pack until you have none left and then you call - "Here!" That is what I did - the first time for ages.

Earlier today, Shirley and I were at a funeral/cremation for one of her nursing colleagues. Sue was only sixty six and a victim of liver cancer just eighteen months after she had retired from practice nursing. From first symptoms through to the final curtain took only six weeks. God really does move in mysterious ways though like me Sue was an ardent and unapologetic atheist. She leaves Bob - a loving husband and two grown up daughters who always referred to her as "Mummy".

Last Saturday, Shirley and I were over at Hull City's Stadium of Dreams to watch our team thrash Sunderland 1-0. They had two players sent off just before half-time so in the second half they were intent solely on defence. It was almost impossible to break them down further - but at least we won! Up The Tigers!

Afterwards we met up with our friend Tony - we are still feeling sad that his long marriage with Fiona has crumbled. We had a meal together in "The Duke of Cumberland" and wished that the old times were back when it was me and Shirley with the two of them. Meals out. Football matches. Boozy sessions in pubs and laughter - lots of laughter. I am afraid I still cannot understand what happened to them. Must people always be looking for something more - the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow, the greener grass on the other side?

Tonight I made baked potatoes for dinner (tea) with fried onions, baked beans and pork sausages. I also brushed two large field mushrooms with olive oil and butter before roasting them in the oven. On Sunday I was delighted with the thin chicken fillets I cooked with double cream, chopped mushrooms and a smattering of Cheddar cheese. Very moreish.

Other ordinary stuff. Tonight was Bonfire Night in England. I was aware of a few fireworks going off in the night sky but it's nothing like it was when I was a boy. Back then you spent all your pocket money on fireworks weeks in advance of the great day. There were huge bonfires - twenty feet tall with old pianos and tea chests, planks of wood and cardboard boxes. On top a "Guy" would sit representing another famous Yorkshireman - Guido Fawkes of York. We'd watch as the tongues of fire leapt up to consume him. And later it was back home for baked potatoes and sometimes toffee apples or parkin cake. November 6th would find me picking about the still smouldering embers of the bonfire - seeking out the remains of dead fireworks. I just loved it. Those really were the days.

"A Penny for The Guy"

Gallery

Monday - a red grouse didn't notice me on Seal Edge - overlooking
The Snake Pass between Sheffield and Manchester

Blackden Barn by Blackden Brook

Rock formation on Seal Edge - thousands of
years of erosion are responsible for this sculpture.

Fly agaric mushroom in the Woodlands Valley

By Blackden Brook

Rainbow's End on Mam Tor (Sunday afternoon)

Judge

Uh oh, here come the Judge

Here comes the Judge

Everybody knows

That he is the Judge

You may recall that I was the geograph photo of the week winner for Week 42. There have been radio interviews, TV appearances and commercial pressure to endorse a new range of frozen Yorkshire puddings. But I am sorry I have serious moral objections to curry-flavoured Yorkshire puds or indeed Mexican, Italian or New York Deli flavours. It just wouldn't be right.

The shortlist for Week 43 duly appeared and after much angst and late night deliberation, these were my final three.

This horse (McDobbin) is in the Scottish borders. The photographer, a certain W.Baxter of Galashiels, has called the picture: "The grass is always greener on the other side":-

This happy scene is in Glasgow Central railway station and it is by another Scottish gentleman known as Tam to his friends. Imaginatively, he called it: "Bride and groom in Glasgow Central railway station" which is a very catchy title don't you think?

But this one was what I judged to be the overall winner. It is by a fellow called Robin who snapped the lovely Autumn image in a park in Newport, Wales. He called it  "An autumn walk with the dog, Belle Vue Park, Newport". He also mailed me twenty quid ahead of my tortured decision-making:-

Please click on the pictures to appreciate them more.

Outrageous

Magnificent York Minster

Yorkshire has been named as one of the top places in the world to visit in 2014 in a new travel booklet. Lonely Planet put the area third in the top ten world regions, behind destinations in India and Australia. The guide mentions Yorkshire's "rugged moorlands, heritage homes and cosy pubs" and that next year's Tour de France's "grand depart"will be in Leeds.Thirteenth century York Minster also makes it into the guide's top ten global "sights to make you feel small".

Quite frankly, I am outraged by this! I mean to plonk Yorkshire in an insulting third place is a heinous slur on my county's good name. Sikkim? The Kimberley? These are nowhere kind of places compared with Yorkshire. I can only imagine that the Lonely Planet judges were bribed by the burghers of Sikkim and Kimberley. If fair was fair we would be miles out in front.

For your interest these are the top ten world regions - according to Lonely Planet:-

1. Sikkim, India
2. The Kimberley, Australia
3. Yorkshire
4. Hokuriku, Japan
5. Texas, USA
6. Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe and Zambia
7. Mallorca, Spain
8. West Coast, New Zealand
9. Hunan, China
10. Ha'apai, Tonga

Nowhere in the Lonely Planet summary did they mention our famous Yorkshire puddings, salubrious Parson Cross estate in Sheffield, the lost pit villages of South Yorkshire. No mention of Philip Larkin or Andrew Marvell, The Brontes, Sir Geoffrey Boycott, Ted Hughes, the chalk cliffs at Flamborough, Pulp, The Kaiser Chiefs, Hull City A.F.C.. Not a sausage about Sheffield being the original home of organised football with the oldest football club in the world and the oldest football ground too. Nothing about Saltaire or the Yorkshire Wolds, David Hockney or Damien Hirst, Samuel Holberry, Richard Whiteley or J.B.Priestley , William Wilberforce, Hilda of Whitby, Dame Judi Dench, Percy Shaw, Barbara Hepworth, King Henry I, The Arctic Monkeys, Mel B from The Spice Girls, Harold Wilson or King Arthur Scargill. Zilch! Nor anything about Fountains Abbey or Rievaulx, Beverley Minster, our proud Danish heritage, Black Sheep Ale, fish and chips, the rhubarb triangle or rugby league. I could go on and on...  Are you still awake?

Shame on The Lonely Planet for only putting Yorkshire third!

Snowden

Where do you stand with regard to Edward Snowden? Hero or traitor and why?

He's got a rather sad, inanimate face don't you think. His spectacles and pasty skin speak accurately of the many geekish hours he has spent in front of computer screens. This isn't the all-American action hero - like Bobby Brague in his prime or even Barry Obama. No "Ed" Snowden is  a bit of a nobody really - at least he was until he decided to pass a barrowful of highly classified materials to news outlets and seek temporary asylum in Russia.

Perhaps you have already deduced my verdict - that he is quite simply a traitor. He was employed by the US military and the CIA on the strict understanding that he would do what thousands of Americans have done before him - protect his country's secrets. To maintain freedom, some dirty tricks are necessary and only an idiot would think otherwise.

I wonder what will become of Edward Snowden. Will he ever return to his homeland? Maybe he wasn't really in love with it anyway. Maybe he was a born traitor. Maybe his parents' unhappy divorce in 2001 made him especially bitter inside. Maybe he developed a psychological need to escape from geekdom and lash out in revenge - become a "somebody".

A horse is a horse of course of course but what do you think about this particular Mr Ed?

Chicken

Recently an eighteen year old Sussex lad called Scott Moyse stumbled across a delightful computer glitch on the Thornton's chocolates website. Essentially, boxes of chocolates that should have cost a few pounds each were listed at only one penny per item. Quickly, Scott clicked in an order for four hundred boxes. With postage and packing the total bill came to a mere £10.90.

A few days later, four hundred boxes of chocolates were duly delivered to Scott's home in Horsham. Under ordinary circumstances, this purchase should have amounted to more than £1000. Such amazing good fortune for Scott and well done to Thornton's for doing the honourable thing in spite of their website error.

So - what did Scott do with all of those choccies? Surely, he could have earned himself a tidy profit - even if he had sold the chocolate boxes at half their retail price. But did Scott do that? No!

Instead, he dressed up as a chicken, loaded the boxes of chocolates into a shopping trolley and with his mate proceeded to the centre of Horsham where he gave his windfall out to passers-by. He said,“We thought it would make some people happy and it would be more enjoyable than just selling them.”

What a heart-warming story and this in a Sussex town that was recently identified as England's most stressed out place to live. I think they should make Scott Moyse the Mayor of Horsham. Then he could exercise his charitable instincts still further - waiving parking fines, heating old people's homes for free and teaching town councillors and special constables to do "the funky chicken" in their brand new chicken costumes. Scott for Mayor!

Boastfulness

Boastfulness is one of the least attractive human traits. I hope it is not one that I can customarily be accused of. Nonetheless, today I am in full egotistic, big-headed boasting mode. Oh look at me! Look at me! What a clever pudding I am! And why you ask  is my heart so gaily bloated this merry October day?

Well, my physically attractive visitor, it is simply because once again I have won the geograph photo of the week competition! My winning picture was picked from 4,870 eligible images. And the reward? A car? A bag of money? A Caribbean holiday? A washing machine? No my friends...much better than any of those, I get to pick the next winner!

My winning photo has already appeared within the annals of this ancient blog. It was a picture I snapped a couple of weeks ago in the hamlet of Malcoff over on "the dark side" of the Pennine hills that thankfully separate my people from the Lancashire riff-raff. The light was lovely that morning - honey sharp  in a way that midsummer light can never be. I had to crouch by the target drystone wall, in a position that would conceal a pictorially inappropriate chimney and aerial on the other side. The undulating autumnal curves of Whitemoor Clough were painted with dramatic October light.

When I got home and checked the day's photos on our computer, I thought - yes! That's a good 'un and my geograph compatriots thankfully agreed. Time for champagne methinks!...Gowans! Gowans! Bring  a jerobaum up from the cellar my good man! This is the winning picture:-

Windmills

Noel Harrison was born on January 29th 1934 and died just a few days ago on October 19th. He was an Olympic skier, an actor, father of five, a musician, entertainer and songwriter. The son of film actor Rex Harrison, Noel lived a full and colourful life which included National Service in the nineteen fifties and as recently as 2011 he appeared at the Glastonbury Festival. Yet he will probably be best remembered for his 1968 rendition of the oddly enigmatic song "The Windmills of Your Mind". Developed from "Les moulins de mon cœur" by the French composer, Michael Legrand, this enduring song has a melancholic, reflective mood that arguably and poetically asks us all to consider the mysterious nature of human existence...

Round like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning

On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that I said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
Or the fragment of a song
Half-remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair?

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind...

Wanderer

Not a Bolton Wanderer or a Wolverhampton Wanderer but a Peak District wanderer. Thursday was the best day of the week. Over to Edale once again for another superb ramble amidst those gorgeous hills and below I have selected five of the photographs I took that day to share with you. Why not click on them to enlarge:-

A view of the village of Edale in The Vale of Edale. You can see that the trees are putting on their autumnal costumes. The church tower is to the left of the scene and the little village school is just to the left of the mid-point.

This handsome ram gave me the evil eye in the pastures to the west of the hamlet of Nether Booth. "What you lookin' at Pudding?" The dark circles under his eyes suggest he had been out on the lash the night before.

I took half a dozen photos of this group of sheep near Nether Booth but this was the best one. They seemed to form themselves into the kind of tableau I was hoping for - with sunshine coming over the Great Ridge that separates the Vale of Edale from The Hope Valley.

I love to see timeless rocks like this one on the edge of the Kinder Plateau - overlooking the Vale  of Edale. See how rain, wind and harsh winters have shaped it over several millennia. Surely no human sculptor could achieve such an artefact or place it in a finer gallery than the one that Nature has provided.

Autumn colours in the valley of Grindsbrook Clough. The skyline marks the southern edge of the wild Kinder Plateau from which just last week fourteen visitors had to be rescued by the Edale Mountain Rescue team. They had been making a film and had become disoriented. Having walked across that hostile landscape myself, I know how easy it would be to get lost up there, stumbling across the "haggs" and "groughs" of that unforgiving peaty landscape.

Educating

Musharaf

Over the years, on television, I have watched the endless denigration and mockery of secondary school teaching both through drama and documentary. Whereas medical professionals and emergency services have generally been sanctified by the media, teachers have been habitually slapped and kicked as if there were no tomorrow. Consequently, whenever I hear about a new programme that will look at secondary education, my cynicism is roused like a growling beast.

How refreshing then to have witnessed the Channel 4 series - "Educating Yorkshire". Filmed in a tough working class comprehensive school in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, the programme cleverly brought out the passion, dedication, good humour and professional expertise of several members of staff. It also demonstrated that schoolchildren can be fun to work with - each one different from the next.

"Educating Yorkshire" showed the hurly burly of school life, warts and all. This wasn't Eton or Westminster -with poncey wannabe Camerons and Cleggs - this was the land of mobile phones, Facebook, broken families, racial integration, poverty, chewing gum, dyed hair and make-up - yet through it all there was a warm core of humanity. Caring for kids, being patient with them, trying to bring out the best in them. Thornhill Academy was a happy, purposeful school.

The last episode focussed largely on a lovely sixteen year old boy called Musharaf who had suffered from severe stammering most of his life. In his final school assembly, with all of his age group gathered, he stood at the front and with headphones playing music in his ears, he delivered an amazingly fluent "thank you" speech to his peers - giving special mention to his English teacher, Mr Burton, who had helped him so much with his oracy. I blubbered as much as Musharaf's classmates.

"Educating Yorkshire" brought back many memories of my own time in teaching. It was a good advert both for teachers and for Yorkshire itself and I applaud Channel 4 for the sensitive way in which they edited this engaging series. I also applaud headteacher Mr Mitchell for his common sense leadership and no-nonsense vision. There was so little jargon, so little reference to the insidious tentacles of government. It was all about the kids and the staff, knocking along together, trying to make the most of things.

Mr Mitchell with two members of his staff

Mosque

There was once a disused cinema on Wolseley Road, Sheffield. For many years it was then used as a makeshift mosque. Round about 2004 that decrepit building was demolished and from the ruins emerged a spanking new purpose-built mosque - funded by the local Muslim population and overseas donations. This new mosque - The Madina Masjid Mosque opened in 2006 and towers above the Heeley Bottom/Lowfields area - making an enormous statement about this city's Muslim population - mostly from Pakistan. It seems to be saying - we are here to stay, we are proud of our religion and we are are no longer poor immigrants.

I have driven by the mosque many times. About two years ago I noticed a new legal office had opened up close to the new mosque - "Ashraf and Ashraf - Immigration Specialists". I am not necessarily proud of what I am about to say but the presence of that company with its headline raison d'etre has frequently made me shake my head in exasperation. I mean what are this company about if not to make money from other people's desperation and to somehow weave around and dodge through the British government's legal red tape? They say "Ashraf & Ashraf is a professional and friendly firm fighting for you and making Immigration simple." To this I would say - why should immigration be "simple"? To me it should be pretty damned difficult. And why is there a white BMW on the pavement?

I had hoped to get a good image of  the  "Ashraf and Ashraf"  business premises with the mosque behind but this was the best I could do:-

 This is a better picture of the mosque:-

And this is the golden crescent on top of the central dome:-

Soon after taking this photograph I was invited inside the mosque by a local taxi driver. What his motivation was for inviting a total stranger and lifelong atheist inside - I have no idea. I had to take my shoes off by the lobby area and went upstairs to the main prayer room. It was empty at the time I snapped this picture of the magnificent chandelier that hangs below the central dome:-

And so I have now decided to become a Muslim myself....only kidding! This is my kind of mosque and it is here that I shall worship Bacchus:-

"The Union Hotel", Nether Edge, Sheffield

Angola

Looking for an unusual holiday location? What about Africa? And specifically what about Angola? It is a beautiful country with miles of scenic south Atlantic beaches and a rich array of wildlife. Formerly colonised by the Portuguese, it still retains attractive echoes of that "benevolent" occupation. Oh, but hang on a minute, hadn't we better find out what life is like for visitors to Angola's exciting capital city - Luanda?

Let's investigate  measured and well-researched foreign travel advice from the British government:-

There is a high level of crime in Luanda. Muggings, particularly to steal mobile phones and other valuables, and armed robberies can occur in any area at any time of the day or night. Areas popular with foreigners are particular targets.

Incidents of rape have been reported in popular nightlife areas, as well as in private homes. Don’t travel alone at night.

Avoid walking around Luanda, especially after dark. Avoid wearing jewellery or watches in public places. Don’t change or withdraw large sums of money in busy public areas. Avoid walking between bars and restaurants on the Ilha do Cabo, and avoid crowded places like markets.

Theft from stationary or slow-moving cars is common in downtown Luanda. Keep valuables out of sight and don’t use mobiles or laptops while in traffic. A high proportion of the civilian population is armed.

When driving, be very wary if another car signals you to pull over. Thieves use the pretext of a minor traffic incident to get you out of your car either to steal it or to rob you.

So, Las Vegas? The Costa Blanca? A remote Greek island? No way! Reading between the lines of the carefully considered travel advice above you can see how much more exciting Angola would be as a holiday destination.

Feelgood

Out-of-town shopping centres? (malls to our North American cousins) - I am not fond of them. There's a huge one on the outskirts of Sheffield. It is called Meadowhall. On the few occasions I have been there, I have had the strong sense that there are weird people in this world whose Meadowhall visits are of core importance to their sense of being. They have embraced the leisure shopping cult like  Mormon converts - grazing at the food court, ambling along those marble corridors to purchase designer label clothing before driving home for pizza and ready meals.

Today we were there for two reasons. One - so that Shirley could buy some new winter boots and Two - to visit the cinema to watch "Sunshine on Leith".

This engaging film has grown out of a moderately successful British musical that cleverly incorporated a handful of songs by Craig and Charlie Reid - The Proclaimers. It is a feelgood movie that weaves together three love stories and occasionally bursts into song. It is set in Edinburgh and Leith which is the Scottish capital's less well-known working class port area.

Hope and resolution are found in the final scene when the entire cast and hundreds of extras bring the gardens off Prince's Street alive with a rousing rendition of "I'm Gonna Be" (Five Hundred Miles).

Soppy sod that I am - there were several moments during today's cinema visit when tears welled up in my eyes - and not just over the outrageous popcorn prices! "Sunshine on Leith" isn't about the gritty reality of the struggle to survive on the wrong side of the Scottish tracks but it is a stirring musical film that has a lightness about it which oddly reminded me of "Slumdog Millionaire" - positive and ultimately happy. Surely that can't be bad.

Chinley

North of Shireoaks - colour deliberately washed out for effect

Yesterday was a little bright island in what has been a rather grey week. Naturally, I went out to get my much-needed  fix - another lovely and vigorous country walk. This involved driving over to The Hope Valley, up Winnats Pass and then across upland country to Chapel-en-le-Frith before parking in the delightful hamlet of Wash. I never knew it existed until I planned this walk.

From Wash I walked to another oddly named hamlet - Malcoff from whence I headed northwards, huffing and puffing up the valley side to Shireoaks and from there to the Pennine Bridleway that leads to South Head. From South Head passing Mount Famine I cut down to Chinley Head marching past a farm called engagingly - Peep-O-Day.

And so down to Chinley. The primary school was disgorging its pupils and numerous parents and carers were waiting in the yard for their charges. I wanted to take a few photos of this scene but thought better of it when I imagined accusations of paedophilia and a burly constable forcing my arm up my back - "You're coming with us mate!"

Onwards to New Smithy where I noticed that the Victorian pub there - "The Crown and Sceptre" - has closed its doors for good. So sad. I had been  planning to sink a foaming quart there especially for Mr Hippo in Angola. From New Smithy to Breckend and back to Wash. A four hour circuit and in case you were doubting my veracity - here is more  photographic proof:-

Whiterakes Farm - high above the valley

Millstone wall in Malcoff and view to Whitemoor

A sheep called Robert at South Head

Close up of Robert's left eye

"The Cottage" in the hamlet of Wash

Barn at Higher Ashen Clough

Sarstedt

He was born in India in 1941 but 1969 was Peter Sarstedt's year. He penned this song himself and it was No.1 in Great Britain for six weeks. Still making music to this day, he has never matched his sixties success. I think that what I mainly liked about this song was its intimate manner of address. Who is he speaking to? And he examines the pursuit of happiness - what really matters in our lives? Where exactly do you go to my "lovely" when you are alone in your bed? It was a song that really stood out amidst the more trashy hit parade offerings of 1969:-

You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain
And there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are.

You live in a fancy apartment
Off the Boulevard of St. Michel
Where you keep your Rolling Stones records
And a friend of Sacha Distel, yes you do.

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the Sorbonne
And the painting you stole from Picasso
Your loveliness goes on and on, yes it does.

When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Juan-les-Pines
With your carefully designed topless swimsuit
You get an even suntan, on your back and on your legs.

And when the snow falls you're found in St. Moritz
With the others of the jet-set
And you sip your Napoleon Brandy
But you never get your lips wet, no you don't.

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
would you Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.

Your name is heard in high places
You know the Aga Khan
He sent you a racehorse for Christmas
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh ha-ha-ha

They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn

But where do you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do.

I remember the back streets of Naples
Two children begging in rags
Both touched with a burning ambition
To shake off their lowly born tags, they try

So look into my face Marie-Claire
And remember just who you are
Then go and forget me forever
But I know you still bear
the scar, deep inside, yes you do

I know where you go to my lovely
When you're alone in your bed
I know the thoughts that surround you
`Cause I can look inside your head.

Conker

The conker is the fruit of the horse chestnut tree which first appeared in Great Britain five hundred years ago. It should not be confused with the sweet chestnut tree which was introduced as a nutritious winter food source by colonising Romans about 1,800 years ago. It is believed that the horse chestnut originated in The Balkans region of southern Europe.

The picture above owes much to my new camera. I was at least thirty feet from the conker pictured which was high above me in the conker tree I first planted with our son Ian - twenty seven years ago - when he was three years old. We found the successful seed on a Sunday afternoon conker collecting mission in the Ewden Valley near Stocksbridge. And we brought it to this house when we flitted from Crookes in 1989.

When hanging in trees, conkers are usually protected by their spiny outer shells but here you can see that the outer shell has already burst open and one of the conkers inside has escaped to the ground.

As a boy, every autumn, it was my mission in life to find the biggest conker of them all. With other lads from my village we would chuck sticks and stones high up into the overhanging branches of fruitful horse chestnut trees or even climb high and edge along precarious limbs in search of our holy grail. If we had fallen we would have probably died.

Conkers are fat and shiny - their surfaces like polished mahogany - until they dry out and start to shrivel after a few days have passed by. We used to play the famous game of "conkers" in the school playground - threading them with bootlaces before aiming them as hard as we could at our friends' dangling conkers. I recall the stinging knuckle pains that would usually accompany these fiercely fought conker matches.

My American friend Chris - in Ohio - had no idea what a conker was. Well there we have it Chris - and anybody else who might be vaguely interested. It is said that William the Conqueror enjoyed a game of conkers even though in 1066 there were no conker trees in Britain. Now there are a reported 432,000 in England alone - 432,001 if you include our Ian's tree.

Nomenclature

In my youth, the term "United Kingdom" appeared on the fronts of British passports and that is pretty much where it stayed - "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland". Back then if a foreigner asked where you were from you would say "Great Britain" and when travelling abroad we announced our homeland with "GB" stickers on our cars. Nobody ever said they were from "The United Kingdom" or worse still "The UK". When you were asked for your home country - on official forms for example - the response was always "Great Britain" - never "UK".

Since this "UK" term has filtered into common usage, I have taken to saying I'm from England - no longer Great Britain. Besides, when I think about it, I don't like being bunched together with the Northern Irish or the Scots - though I am quite happy to lie in the same bed as the cuddly Welsh! It's hard to pinpoint when widespread use of the lazy term "UK" really gained a foothold. To have the proud heritage and history of these British Isles reduced to just two letters - like a breakfast cereal or a table sauce or something - doesn't get my vote and never will.

As both an Englishman and a British citizen, I am also against the use of the term "Brit". Like "UK" it is lazy and seems to be suggesting some kind of  naff notion of modernity. Hey dude - look at me - I'm in the Brit club - like The Beatles, Mini cars, HP sauce, Carnaby Street and the hovercraft. Well I for one am not in this Brit Club and if I ever hear the word "Brit" on the radio or TV, it makes me squirm. Britt Eckland is now seventy one but she is the only "Brit" I am in favour of and she boasts a double "t"!

Language evolves and I have no problem with the majority of changes and additions that have happened in English in my lifetime but "UK" and "Brit"? Yeuch! If there was such an organisation as the Academie Anglaise, I would petition to get "UK" and "Brit" banned. They are as offensive to the ear as chewing gum on the pavement or litter in the street are to the eye. UK even sounds like "Yuk!" and as for Brit Awards? God give me strength.

And that was my latest Victor Meldrew moment. I fully realise that I am like King Canute trying to hold back the tide. Blame the bad back!