Cardiff

Cardiff is the capital of Wales. We drove down there on Saturday morning. M1 to M42, M42 to M5, M5 to M4 - then across the Severn Bridge to that land of harps and daffodils, sheep and rugby, leeks and male voice choirs, Earl Gray and Dame Jenny. The journey took three hours and forty five minutes. We parked at the international athletics stadium and then wandered across the road to a giant ASDA superstore with its attached cafeteria.

All the tables were occupied but a man on his own signalled that we could join him at his table. He was squeezed into one of those electric mobility scooters and at first sight he looked as if he was in training for the Fattest Man in Wales competition. But he was a nice fellow - quite intelligent and somehow he let it be known that he hadn't always been disabled. Diabetes had been his downfall and he admitted that he was in something of a Catch 22 situation with regard to his health. The pounds had piled on and his inability to exercise or burn off calories had turned him into a a huge, wobbly Welsh pudding.

Michael David - for that was his name - was in that neck of the woods for the same reason as us. We had come to watch the Premiership football match between Cardiff City and my beloved Tigers - Hull City. Cardiff City's new stadium is on the other side of the ASDA car park. Our teams have something in common in that both have prosperous. power-crazed chairmen who have shown scant regard for our clubs' histories or heritage. There were two intriguing chants that both sets of fans joined in "You're Cardiff City - You'll Always Be Blue!" and "Stand Up for The History! Stand Up for The History!" I could explain the details of what lay behind these chants but we'd be here all day.

Anyway the main thing is that Hull City thrashed Cardiff by four goals to nil. It was men against boys and it could have so easily been six or seven nil. Cardiff looked as if they had no idea how to score and our lads were purring like the Yorkshire equivalent of a Ferrari engine. Two goals from Nikica Jelavić and one each from Tom Huddlestone and Jake Livermore. That's the kind of away day you want. And we were captured by Getty Images - to the very left of the photo below. I added the arrow myself. Shirley is mostly obscured by the people in front of us but even so we are now celebrity supporters:-

After the game we drove to Barry as most hotel rooms in Cardiff had been taken up by rugby supporters from the Friday night Six Nations game between Wales and France - also played in the city. 

We stayed at the economical Mount Sorrel Hotel. After depositing our bags, we wandered down to the Borough Inn on the High Street for a couple of celebratory pre-dinner drinks. Then on to the Shahi Noor Tandoori. Lamb balti, potato rice, nan bread - all very nice. Then afterwards up to "The Park" for a couple more pints and then "Match of the Day" back at the hotel.

In the morning, we ate breakfast looking out towards grey clouds over the Bristol Channel and to Barry Island which is where we spent an hour before driving into Cardiff City Centre for a good look round. Neither of us had ever been there before. We also went to Cardiff Bay. Though the weather stayed dry, that veritable eiderdown of thick grey cloud remained over us - not the best light conditions for photography. Anyway:-

Forlorn ice cream hut on Barry Island

Welsh head gear in a shop window

Cardiff Library

The Antarctic 100 Memorial looking out over Cardiff Bay
and behind it the Norwegian Church

Statue of Aneurin Bevan - esteemed architect of the National
Health Service after World War Two

Cardiff Castle's north gate

Retribution

And lo The Lord spake and his voice was mighty and wrathful and he saw that Judas of Yorkshire, born of Satan's line, had succumbed to the sin of sloth and The Lord was most displeased. And in his eternal wisdom, The Lord commanded Judas to go out into the fields and to walk amongst the hills and to observe the beasts of the fields,  the soaring birds of the skies and the plants that grow in great fecundity from the earth below our feet.

And Judas did therefore taketh his belongings, his boots and his camera and jumpeth into his car...

And I drove up to Ringinglow, donned my trusty boots and headed up the lane towards Clough Hollow. There I climbed over a stile and struck out towards Brown Edge. This is Brown Edge Farm:-

And here's an old sheep barn just west of Brown Edge Farm. It's not the first time I have captured it with a camera. Beyond it you can see Rud Hill. The undulations in the foreground relate to long defunct stone quarrying activity.

It wasn't the longest of walks. Just an hour long stroll. On Bassett Lane, I noticed snowdrops growing on the verge. In England they tell us that springtime is almost here and soon there will be daffodils and blossom and new spring lambs.

Not far from those promising snowdrops I looked across a sheep pasture towards Sheffield. There was just the ghost of a rainbow. Can you see it?

After half a mile I zoomed in on High Storrs School at Bents Green/ Ecclesall in Sheffield's prosperous south western suburbs. It's where both of our children went. There state education was not the council estate battleground that I alluded to in my last blogpost. Both Ian and Frances were very happy at High Storrs, made many friends and still look back upon their years there with enormous affection:-

And when Judas returned from his sojourn in the wilderness, The Lord said that he mayest drink from the leaves of the tea plant and eateth the remaining custard tart. And Judas did as The Lord commandeth and pledged that he would no longer partake of the forbidden gruel that is idleness...until tomorrow.

Idleness

"Procrastination is the spice of life!" was shouted from a window on the campus of the University of Stirling - probably some time during 1975 - or maybe 1976. It was a woman's voice and she remains anonymous and unknown to me. Funny how certain things stick with you.

Once I was Mr Busy Bee. There weren't enough hours in the day. Up with the larks, I scooted to the shower, dressed in record time and leapt downstairs to gulp scalding tea and consume a slice of toast in one enormous mouthful. Then grab school bag and keys, out to the car. And it was always 7.52 exactly. Zooming to the school, I knew the quickest route like the back of my hand.

The work was always full on. With my English team, we often felt like firefighters, beating down those crackling bush fires. We had working lunches - not the ones others might enjoy - but literal working lunches - at one's desk or computer - filling in data, checking work-related messages, marking books while munching on sandwiches. Towards the end, I gave up making tea or coffee at work because that took too much time so I just swigged water from a two litre bottle.

As the head of department, the buck stopped with me. I had other people's discipline issues to address. Hundreds of times I had to leave my own classes to deal with recalcitrant, awkward, lazy, disruptive, violent or mentally disturbed children in corridors. Often they came back to my classroom and sat at the side or we'd try to get the superior and often dismissive senior management team to roll up their sleeves and support us - that is if we could locate them. And staff were sometimes at the end of their wits. There were tears, "sickies", anti-depressant tablets, problems at home, arguments, letting off steam.

After the often stormy weather  of each timetabled school day had passed, there were usually meetings to attend, things to sort out or on Thursdays - detentions to administer. I returned home between six and six thirty - unless there was a parents' evening to attend. Back home, I'd take my schoolbag from my car. It always contained a bunch of pressing things to do or pupils' assignments to mark and assess. I would frequently do an hour or two of school work late at night before retiring to bed and Sunday evenings were often devoted - not to my wife and children - but to that damnable black school bag - its mouth forever open and endlessly deep.

That's how it was. In another life. Now I am not Mr Busy Bee, I am instead Mr Idle Sloth. This blog might have accidentally given you the impression that I spend all of my time hiking around the countryside or taking photographs, watching films, travelling abroad,  maintaining this house or  reading books but if the truth be known Mr I.Sloth spends the majority of his time just lazing about. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I confess.

No need to get up early. Put the news on the radio at nine o'clock. Dressing gown and downstairs. Tea and porridge or egg on toast. Watch some "Home Under the Hammer" or "Down Under Revisited" - just now its the Winter Olympics - women's curling and I am not talking about their flowing locks. Another mug of tea. Still in dressing gown. Wander outside to feed the birds - though we see less than we used to do. Switch on this computer. Check out familiar sites. Check emails. Check blogs. Maybe write a blogpost like this one. The morning drifts away. Time for a leisurely shower while listening to "You and Yours" on Radio 4. Get dressed. Make the bed. Empty the dishwasher. Check the mail. Make some lunch. 

It was on a morning such as this that I recently missed a dental appointment. Too busy being slothful to look at the calendar and now that excellent NHS dental practice has banished me in spite of my protestations. I have to get on the list of another practice. If only we could have dealt with school pupils like that when I was Mr Busy Bee - "You failed to hand your assignment in on time so your exam entry has been cancelled" or "You played truant on Wednesday so you are off the school roll and you'll have to find another school to disrupt!".

Of course, sloth is one of the seven deadly sins but I don't feel too guilty about it. Pottering around, wasting time, relaxing. It's like payback time for those endless busy bee days. My afternoons are dictated by the weather. Country walking - shopping - making the evening meal. Then there's "Pointless " on the TV with the affable Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman. Like the woman shouted, and maybe it's true, "Procrastination is the spice of life!" There's a lot to be said for idleness.

Million

As some visitors will recall, my internet life isn't all about this Yorkshire Pudding blog. As well as male modelling, I also submit photographs to a couple of geographical sites - including Panoramio - hosted by Google. Most of these photos can be accessed via Google Earth and Google Maps. Panoramio provides comprehensive statistics. I know how many people have looked at each of my pictures and the overall tally of "views". That's the main reason for this boastful post. I can announce exclusively to you - dear reader - that my Panoramio photos have now attracted over one million views! It has taken a while to get there but at last I am in the one million club and as it happens this is my most viewed picture:-

It was taken in 2009 when I visited Easter Island. It shows Pu o Hiro - The Trumpet Stone. This picture alone has received 18,858 views. Everybody is aware of the stone statues or "moai" on Easter Island but there are many other archaeological remains there - including this stone which has holes near the top and allegedly was blown like a trumpet to summon islanders to meetings.

To visit my Panoramio album, go here.

Squelching

No floods in South Yorkshire but even so the ground is pretty sodden. This was one of the tracks I squelched along on Sunday morning:-

I know that Mountain Thyme in Colorado likes to pin down where I have been walking using Google imaging. It was east of Bolsterstone to the north of the Ewden Valley, just below Stocksbridge. I had chosen to walk up on the hill in the vain hope that recent rain might have drained away. No chance. At times I felt like a World War One soldier at Passchendaele. My trusty boots were smothered in milk chocolate coloured mud. Fortunately, German soldiers were not shooting at me from their Teutonic trenches.. 

Above you can see lofty Hollin Edge Farm. Here I spoke with the ruddy faced farmer for a good few minutes. He was a pleasant fellow - born on this farm and he has lived there throughout his fifty hilltop years. He told me that his father had died two years ago and I sensed that his pain was still very raw. I guess that his father taught him everything he knows about hill farming - especially rearing sheep. They must have been very close - living and working together for so long.

 It may look ancient but the cairn above was erected in the 1870's. It is near the village of Bolsterstone and was constructed on top of Walder's Low which is a very ancient mound - the burial place of a Saxon chieftain - probably around 700AD.

Above, a muddy white horse looks for something green to graze upon on Sunny Bank. Beyond, you can see brimful Broomhead Reservoir in the valley. If only we could export some of this water to southern California!

Soon the non-sexual slipping and sliding and squelching was over. Walking down a tarmac track, back to my car, I tried to wash my boots in the clear water that was cascading from the hill above. It was as if the road had become a stream bed.

It had only been a short two hour walk because I needed to get back home. Our friends and neighbours - Jackie and Martin - had invited Shirley and I round to their house for Sunday dinner. Wine, beer, laughter and good home made food. The feast lasted a full five hours - putting a bit of welcome sparkle into the middle of muddy February.

Fred

Observant bloggers will notice that I have once again changed my profile picture or avatar. Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be....

Frederick Sewards Trueman - the famous Yorkshire and England fast bowler. He was born into a poor family in the South Yorkshire hamlet of Stainton in 1931 - weighing 14lbs 1oz at birth. His father played for the village cricket team and later - when Fred was at Maltby Secondary School - he began to show his own  talent as a fast bowler. By the age of sixteen he was playing for the Sheffield United cricket club and by the age of eighteen - in 1949 - he was plunged into Yorkshire first team.

Nicknamed "Fiery Fred" because of his pace and his brusque Yorkshire demeanour, Freddie first played for England in June 1952 against India - taking seven wickets in the match. His first class figures are impressive. In county cricket he played in 603 matches taking 2304 wickets at an average of 18.5 runs per wicket. At test level, he played in 67 matches, taking 307 wickets at an average of  21.57 runs per wicket. On twenty eight occasions he managed a ten wicket haul in first class matches.

When he died in 2006, this is what The Guardian said of him:-

Not only was Fred Trueman one of the most magnificent fast bowlers England has ever produced, he was also one of the game's greatest characters. Trueman anecdotes, many of them embellished, others simply untrue, have enlivened many a cricket-dinner speech - and will continue to do so long after his passing.

His natural ability was supported by a fearsome image and a caustic wit. One true anecdote concerns his outcry - he would not have termed it sledging - to the Warwickshire batsman Billy Ibadulla. "You've got more edges than a broken pisspot," he exclaimed. He suggested to John Arlott, half jokingly, that his biography should be called "T'definitive story of't 'finest fast bowler that ever drew breath."

Fred Trueman's statue in Skipton, Yorkshire where he lived out his days. Having
been a pipe smoker most of his adult life, he succumbed to lung cancer. He is
buried in the cemetery at Bolton Abbey...

Amen

God hath been wreaking his dark vengeance upon the sodomites and sinners who live in the south of England - sending biblical floods upon them and lashing their seaside boltholes with almighty tempests and crashing salt waves. Iniquitous Wales has also aroused God's wrath and  lo, he hath thrashed England's Gomorrah - the unholy seaside resort of Blackpool .

Meanwhile, in sunny Yorkshire, your meek and most reverential correspondent Brother Pudding did walketh out in the countryside yesterday afternoon, communing with God's creatures and observing the beauty that he hath, in his wisdom, left for we his humble servants to worship.

Approaching Stannington from the Rivelin Valley, I spotted an old stone boundary marker for this new Jerusalem - the City of Sheffield:-

Brother Pudding tarried a while at Bowcroft Cemetery on Riggs High Road. It is an ancient Quaker burial ground. Very small and very windswept - accommodating various members of the Shaw family from nearby hill farms:-

And did those feet in ancient times, walk upon England's pastures green? A view of Hill Top at Dungworth with High Bradfield beyond:-

Disused chimney at Dyson Industries' refractory on Stopes Lane - again High Bradfield can be seen in the distance:-

And I don't know if he'll see this in his sodden Welsh cottage where flickering candles are now de rigeur but this is the former King Edward VII hospital in the Rivelin Valley where I believe Nurse John Gray once worked. It has been converted into residential accommodation:- 

Amen

Singalong

This is a song that has stuck in my head since 1963 - when I first heard it. As a teenager I grew from The Beatles and the Hollies to discover what I considered to be the real music of the heart - Bob Dylan, Free, The Moody Blues, Leonard Cohen, Richie Havens, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix, Jethro Tull, The Nice, Donovan, The Beach Boys - but there was always "Hey Paula". Such sweet innocence.

Hey, hey Paula, I wanna marry you 

Hey, hey Paula, no one else could ever do 

I've waited so long for school to be through 

Paula, I can't wait no more for you 

My love, my love 

Hey Paul, I've been waiting for you 

Hey, hey, hey Paul, I want to marry you too 

If you love me true, if you love me still, our love will always be real 

My love, my love 

True love means planning a life for two 

Being together the whole day through 

True love means waiting and hoping that soon wishes we've made will come true 

My love, my love 

Hey, hey Paula, I've been waiting for you 

Hey, hey Paul, I want to marry you too 

True love means planning a life for two 

Being together the whole day through 

True love means waiting and hoping that soon wishes we've made will come true 

My love, my love

The song was written by Ray Hildebrand (Paul) who first performed it at a Texas radio station in 1962 with his then girlfriend Jill Jackson (Paula). When recorded, the song sold over two million copies globally and was top of the American hit parade throughout February 1963. Their musical careers were short lived and they each took different directions after their moment in the spotlight. Paul will now be seventy three years old and Paula seventy one.

Dean

James Dean as Cal Trask in "East of Eden"

After reading "East of Eden", I ordered a copy of the 1955 film version directed by Elia Kazan. I was simply curious to see how the film  interpreted Steinbeck's novel. The fact that James Dean was cast as Cal Trask seemed purely incidental.

So I watched the film and the story it told was surely a very pale imitation of the novel. Adam Trask's history is hardly touched upon and we don't even see the Hamilton and Trask farmsteads in the Salinas Valley. Lee - the Chinese housekeeper and confidante - is notable because of his absence and Kate's brothel is shifted to Monterey - when in the novel it is down by the railroad tracks in Salinas.There can be very few literary films that are as far distant from the original text as "East of Eden".

There was no doubt that the star of the film was James Dean - giving Cal Trask a prime significance that he doesn't really possess within the pages of the book. It was fascinating to look closely at James Dean in action. The part seemed made for him for in real life he lost his mother when he was still a small child and his relationship with his father was literally and figuratively distant. 

My Amazon DVD order came on two discs and on the second of these there's an old documentary about James Dean's life called "Forever James Dean". For someone who died so young - only twenty four - he was a fascinating character. He was surly and awkward, lonesome and devilish. He was fascinated by all forms of artistic creativity and tried his hand at painting and sculpture - even when he was a penniless actor, struggling to be noticed in Hollywood. And when he gained his all too brief success one of the first things he did was to buy a fast car. Speed also fascinated him.

Back in Fairmount, Indiana where he grew up, his drama teacher was Adeline Nall. She said of Dean, "I loved that kid and he loved me I know". After a successful high school drama production in 1948, the cast bought Miss Nall a beautiful orchid to say thanks for all her hard work. Dean approached her and asked if he could borrow the orchid for a while. He took it away and made a painting of it - which Miss Nall kept until her death in 1996. Beneath the orchid Dean wrote two words - "Her Pride". I found this story quite touching.

"Her Pride" - painting of an orchid by James Dean

If James Dean hadn't been killed on that Californian highway near Cholame back in September 1955, and if he had survived lung cancer through all his cigarette smoking, he would have been eighty four years old last weekend. Though much of his legendary status surrounds the fact  that he died so young, there are many who believe that he would have been an even bigger legend if he had lived to old age. There was so much more that this charismatic young man would have given the film industry - both as an actor and probably as a director too.

Grrrrr

"was sat" or "was sitting"/ "was stood" or "was standing"?

Okay, okay - maybe I am just an old pedant but I can't help it. I can often forgive ordinary people's grammatical errors in everyday conversations but when such errors creep into the communications of highly paid and well-trained BBC broadcasters, my hackles rise.

Let's get it clear. If you were "sat" somewhere - that means you were picked up and literally placed in your seat but if you sat there of your own freewill, then you "were sitting" in that place. It's the same with "stood". If you were "stood" say in the middle of a field, that means you were picked up and placed there but if you "were standing" in the field, that means you had walked through the gateway independently, dodging festering cowpats before arriving in the middle of said field to stand. Incidentally, why you should do that - I have no idea.

So in Standard English terms, when you say: "We were stood at the bar waiting to be served" you are mangling our language. You should say: "We were standing at the bar waiting to be served". And when you say: "The cat was sat on the mat" you should really be saying: "The cat was sitting on the mat" or indeed "The cat sat on the mat".

It may be that other fusty old pedants and I are fighting a losing battle on this one. The English language is forever evolving - not just through the addition of new vocabulary but also through changes to previously accepted grammatical constructions. Nonetheless, as I move inexorably towards my state funeral, I shall never say: "I  was sat at my computer churning out nonsense", nor shall I say: "We were stood in the West Stand watching Hull City thrash Southampton". I cannot condone abuse.

Jose

Jose  - soon after reaching the Marshall Islands

Surely the "news story of last week" accolade must go to Jose Salvador Alvarenga who arrived in the Marshall Islands after drifting across the Pacific Ocean for more than a year. In December 2012, he and a companion called Ezequiel set off on a short fishing trip, leaving the Mexican coast in a small fibreglass boat. A storm blew up and they found themselves being blown westwards, without the necessary facilities to turn back homewards. It is 5,000 miles from Mexico to the Marshall islands.

At first Mr Alvarenga looked like a Robinson Crusoe figure - grinning widely as he stepped onto dry land.sporting a full beard. It should have been a delightful good news tale but there's something rather odd about it all. For a man who had apparently spent a year surviving on the fish and seabirds he caught he looked surprisingly robust - not an undernourished sunburnt skeleton of a man. Later, in a TV press conference, a now clean-shaven but miserable-looking Jose struggled to communicate and questions about Ezequiel's demise were left hanging in the air.

Perhaps we will never know what really happened out there but when I look at that TV interview I see a man who appears to be traumatised - and not just by memories of his incredible voyage across the world's biggest ocean. Things don't quite add up.

Jose - two days later at the press conference

Parklife

I have blogged about the millionaire Sheffield philanthropist Alderman J. G. Graves before. See here. Yesterday afternoon, before food shopping, I had a long walk round Graves Park in the southern part of the city. It was of course named after him. There are 92 hectares in total and the park contains ancient woodland, streams, the remains of an old packhorse route, football pitches, bowling greens, a cafe, tennis courts, a children's petting farm and an actual farm that specialises in Highland cattle. The parkland was given to the city of Sheffield by Graves in the mid nineteen thirties. 

Park entrance from Meadowhead

Tired blogger resting by the bowling green. I hope he wasn't dead.

Two man football practice

A view of Woodseats from Bolehill

Norton Hall and Norton Parish Church on the edge of the park. There was a significant
country estate here before the arrival of William the Conqueror and those pesky French. 

Horny Highland cattle. According to the information
 panel, this one is called Bob.

Dog walkers. Young mothers pushing prams. Old people sitting on benches. Toddlers feeding the ducks. Football players and lone photographers like me. Schoolchildren strolling home. In cities, parks like Graves Park provide the opportunity for time out from domestic life. No walls. No television or radio blaring. Green grass and trees. The promise of springtime stirring. Thanks again John Graves. Gone but not forgotten.

King

I know that one or two visitors have been seething with annoyance about my changeable profile picture or avatar. Sorry about that. So far I have been Father Christmas, Alf Garnett, Captain James Cook (greatest Yorkshireman ever), Popeye's arch-enemy Bluto and the bard of Hull - Philip Larkin. But who am I now? Surely you must recognise him? Why, it's King Henry I of England - the only British monarch to be born in Yorkshire.

Yes, he was born at Selby in September 1068, the youngest son of William the Conqueror and he died in France in December 1135. He was the king from 1100 until his death.

He won the support of the Saxons by granting them a charter and marrying a Saxon princess, Edith, daughter of Malcolm III of Scotland. She was known as Matilda after her marriage, a name more acceptable to the Norman barons than her Saxon name Edith. Henry's daughter was also called Matilda. He was an able administrator, and established a professional bureaucracy and a system of travelling judges. He was called Beauclerc because of his scholarly interests.

In 1101 his elder brother Robert, Duke of Normandy, attempted to seize the crown by invading England. However, after the Treaty of Alton, Robert agreed to recognise his brother Henry as King and returned to Normandy. They fought again in 1106 at The Battle of Tinchebrai at which Robert was captured and Henry became Duke of Normandy as well as King of England. 

An energetic, decisive and occasionally cruel ruler, Henry centralised the administration of England and Normandy in the royal court, using 'viceroys' in Normandy and a group of advisers in England to act on his behalf when he was absent across the Channel. Henry successfully sought to increase royal revenues, as shown by the official records of his exchequer (the Pipe Roll of 1130, the first exchequer account to survive).

Henry's only legitimate son and heir, William, was drowned in 1120 in the wreck of the White Ship and Henry tried to settle the succession on his daughter Matilda and her son Henry (later Henry II). However, Matilda widow of Henry V, Holy Roman Emperor, was unpopular when she re-married into the House of Anjou rival of the House of Normandy. The throne was taken by Henry's nephew Stephen, who, towards the end of his reign, agreed to adopt Matilda's son as his heir.

Henry died in Normandy in 1135 of food poisoning according to legend from eating a 'surfeit of Lampreys' (an eel type fish).During his life he also enjoyed a surfeit of women, using his regal position to take many mistresses and he fathered at least twenty five children. Henry I's body was buried in Reading Abbey after it was returned to England sewn into a bull's skin but the exact location of his grave is uncertain. It is very possible that his silver coffin was removed or stolen during the dissolution of the monasteries as decreed by Henry VIII some three hundred years after Henry I gobbled down those squiggly lampreys. Zzzzzzzzzz....Are you asleep yet?

Contrast

Porthleven is in Cornwall, right by the Atlantic Ocean. Above you can see the village's  Bickford-Smith Institute (1882) with its sturdy clock tower. Though it looks like a church, it isn't and never has been. It was a most ambitious location for such a building - given the wild Atlantic storms that will occasionally sweep in to smash upon the foreshore. The amazing picture below is from today's "Guardian":-

The south west of England and indeed south Wales have had a terrible battering from the weather this winter. So far they have had virtually no snow or frost but record rainfall and storms have repeatedly hit that part of the country causing widespread flooding, destruction and misery. Yesterday, the only railway track into Cornwall was breached at Dawlish in Devon and a large section of the sea wall that carries it was washed away. It will surely take many weeks to repair.

Meanwhile here in Yorkshire, you'll be pleased to know we are still enjoying exceptionally mild winter weather - even if there has been rather more rain than we would have liked in recent days. Time for another mug of tea methinks...

Beautiful

Visitors who have suffered this blog for  months,  years in some unfortunate cases, may recall that I am a regular contributor to a  British photo-mapping site called "geograph". Click on the logo below:-

In a typical week, around 5,000 new photographs are submitted to the site and every week there's a competition to decide the photo of the week. Last year, I achieved this accolade twice - both pictures being snapped in what has become my beloved Peak District. 

Last month, though I say it myself, I captured a series of marvellous pictures from Stanage Edge during a temperature inversion - when cloud hung around stubbornly in the Hope Valley. Right place, right time. I noticed a man squatting on the nearby moorside - half hidden by a heather mound. At first, I thought he was obeying an urgent call of nature but as he stood up I realised he had been making final adjustments to his remotely controlled model aeroplane. He released it and the thing whizzed manically around in the January air.

It was difficult to capture that little plane in my viewfinder but I managed it three or four times and this was the best result:-

I am proud and pleased to let you you know that this was the geograph photo of the week winner for Week 3 (2014). The judge said:-

A beautiful image of the landscape around Stanage, with a cloud inversion over layers of wooded hills greatly adding to the atmosphere of the shot. I do not know how a model aeroplane came to stray into the field of view, but this makes the image something special, with the angular shape of the plane contrasting nicely with the softer shapes of the landscape below – in all, a moment in time well captured by the photographer. The limited colour range of the shot is also noteworthy – the image could almost be described as an “honorary black and white” My congratulations to Yorkshire Pudding on a worthy winner of this week’s competition.

My prize? A flatscreen TV? A dirty weekend in Canton, Georgia? A bottle of champagne? No, I am afraid not. The prize is simply to pick the winner from next week's shortlist. After all, we are all amateur photographers and "geograph" is non-profit making.

Fixed

These days I'm like a drug addict but the drug I crave is simply to get out walking in the countryside. If I don't have a fix every few days, I experience something resembling cold turkey and last week's miserable weather kept me housebound. I had a bad case of cabin fever.

Sunday's promising weather forecast came true and  even though I knew  the earth would be soggy with awfully muddy paths to contend with, I was parked up at Brooklands, near Bakewell before midday. Heading up the hill, I came across a small herd of alpacas - far from the Andes. This one is called Bob and though you can't see it, Bob is surveying the Wye valley:-

Slipping and sliding up a woodland path, I get through the trees on to Calton Pastures - part of the vast Chatsworth estate. Dappled sunshine sweeps across the landscape and I capture this image of Moatless Plantation:-

In the dew pond or small lake high on the pastures, a solitary young swan keeps plunging below the surface to find sustenance in the pond weed:-

After passing through the hamlet of Calton Lees I reach the River Derwent beside which is this old corn mill - part of the Chatsworth estate and now disused. The sheep on the estate are far less skittish than most hill sheep. They're used to people passing by:-

Here you can see the River Derwent in flood and beyond is the beautiful edifice that is Chatsworth House - home to the Dukes of Devonshire and arguably the finest stately home in England:-

I plod onwards to the quaint Victorian estate village of Edensor and then along the old drovers' track that leads to Ball Cross. Down through Manners Wood to Bakewell golf club, along the Monsal Trail - a former railway track - thence back to the car where water and clean shoes await me. Three and a half hours. Fixed!

Suburbia

It's easy to take things for granted. One of the reasons we bought our little house in the Sheffield suburbs was its location, Our children were never driven to school because both their primary and secondary schools are in easy walking distance. Also, a  four minute walk brings you to the useful local shops and services at Banner Cross.

What do we have? There's an Indian curry house, a Chinese takeaway, a traditional fish and chip shop, a jeweller's , the post office, a fruit and vegetable shop, two butchers, a pet shop, a dry cleaner, the newspaper and confectionery shop, a brand new Sainsburys "Local" store,  a florist, a shoe repairer, our local pub - "The Banner Cross Hotel", an Italian restaurant, two banks, three estate agents, a pharmacy and below you can see a shoe shop and "The Banner Crust" which offers excellent pies and sandwiches.

Outside the old bank on the corner - now another estate agency - we have what you might call "street furniture". They are ugly metal cabinets associated with telecommunications - especially mobile phone services. The pole you can see on the left  rises to about thirty feet - yet another ugly mobile phone transmitter. These things seem to be everywhere nowadays. As someone who doesn't possess a mobile phone, I feel particularly aggrieved by these unpleasant, functional additions to my environment. I had the idea of making stickers to put on each of them saying simply "Eyesore". Why can't they bury them or hide them in buildings and who is officially okaying their placement?

These pictures were taken on sunny Saturday morning. I walked home via Glenalmond Road which you can see below and there's another of those damned telecommunication cabinets to the right.

As I have plodded the land, I have seen many scenic villages and hamlets and beautiful houses in splendid rural isolation. My late brother Paul lived with his family three miles from anywhere - up a quiet country track in the west of Ireland and Robin lives in a similarly isolated location in southern France. But when I imagine living in such places, I also think about the services and convenience I'd be losing. There's a lot to be said for living in the suburbs of a city and maybe it's only when you break away that you fully appreciate what you have lost.

Windows

Weatherwise,  the last week has probably  been the worst one of the winter here in Yorkshire. . Grey skies and plenty of rain. It has been difficult to get out. When working in schools, whole days could go by without me looking out of the classroom window. Of course these days with intercative whiteboards, many modern school rooms have to be permanently shielded from daylight by blinds. Most unhealthy. Sometimes the evening cleaners might say to me, "It's been an awful day" or "Hasn't it been lovely today?" and my response would be, "Has it? I hadn't noticed".

Most of this past week I have looked out at bedraggled birds seeking sustenance in our soggy garden or fellow citizens hurrying by on the footpath with hoods pulled down or umbrellas raised.  But this morning - Saturday - sunshine poured from a cobalt blue sky for two or three hours before the familiar greyness returned.

Naturally, I had to take some pictures. The top one is of the bay window at the front of our little house. You can see our recycling bins and my car parked on the block paving in front of our exclusive residence. Below there's an old friend sitting in a sunny window. It's a cactus that we have parented for almost thirty years now. If I don't twist it around occasionally the prickly cactus fingers will bend over as they reach imperceptibly for the light.The tall one is the mama.

At the back of our house I am looking through the glass above the kitchen door. It is such a sunny morning that the contrast between the shadow cast by our house over the garden and the brightly sunlit houses on a parallel street is quite severe. You might just be able to make out our pet sheep Beau and her cute lamb Peep grazing on the lawn.

 Next to our kitchen door we have a steel board where fridge magnets cluster - souvenirs of places visited. And this is also like a window because each magnet provides memories of somewhere else - a window on the world.