Walls

Over at the Geograph site, I have contributed  393  images in which the principal subject is tagged as "wall" or "walls". Mostly, the walls in question  are drystone walls which are an integral feature of upland landscapes in England and Wales.

Historically, wherever stones were easily available, our forbears would build walls - rather than planting hedges. The walls were to delineate ownership and to enclose animals or crops. It is estimated that there are over 170,000 miles of drystone wall in Britain - enough to circle the globe seven times over.

I am a sucker for these walls. Many are hundreds of years old and if you pause to look closely at them you find a certain rustic beauty. I suspect that the wall builders of yore never imagined for one minute that they were producing a kind of accidental art that would endure through the centuries as testament to their hard labour and craftsmanship.

On YouTube a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon the ramblings of a young Yorkshireman called Jack Roscoe. His  vlogging name is "Northern Introvert". He is a very pleasant guide to follow on his various jaunts. His most recent video sees him learning about drystone walling from a group of enthusiasts who are busy repairing a couple of walls on a North Yorkshire farm.

The video is over 23 minutes long so you might not have time to watch it all. Mind you, I suspect there will be some visitors who are already thinking, "A video about building drystone walls? I would rather watch grass growing!" Each to their own.

Remembering

Okay, I am back from "The Hammer and Pincers" quiz with four pints of "Stones" in my belly. Though we did not win the overall prize this week, we were still first to a line of five correct answers. I have just stripped tonight's roasted chicken of any remaining meat and I have put the resultant carcass out on the lawn for a passing fox to sniff before guzzling down.

And so what are we left with when it comes to blogging?

I thought I might use this opportunity to capture a memory from long ago in written words. Arguably, memories are the means by which we mark our presence upon this spinning planet. Here we go.

I am sixteen years old and I have been chosen to represent East Yorkshire youth clubs  at a special reception in St James's Palace in London. It is to mark sixty years of youth clubs in England and Wales - under the auspices of The National Association of Youth Clubs.

Before the main event, I get to meet the pop singer Lulu, Lord John Hunt who led the successful Mount Everest expedition in 1953 and the famous DJ and TV presenter Jimmy Savile. He jokes that it is nice to have another Yorkshire lad down there in London and we shake hands. Retrospectively, it seems most distasteful that he was a patron of The National Association of Youth Clubs but back in 1971 nobody realised the true nature of that self-obsessed sex monster.

I visit a lavatory in St James's Palace and it is like no lavatory I have ever been in before. The Victorian toilet bowl is like a throne on a kind of platform and there are lotions and potions and soft white towels for hand cleaning.

On to the main event where there is a finger buffet with china teacups and strict instructions about where we should all stand before The Queen Mother drifts into the room with her little entourage.

She was Queen Elizabeth II's mother and formerly the wife of King George VI who came to the throne by default when King Edward VIII abdicated.

She reaches me and puts out a gloved hand, smiling with her little brown teeth on display. She would have been my current age (71) that afternoon but she seemed older. She asks me where I am from and then she asks me if I know Hotham Hall where she enjoyed some happy times when she was a child but I don't know the place. She is most charming and soon moves on to the next youth club member - representing a different county.

I find my way back to Kings Cross Station and catch an evening train back to Hull. Looking back, I think I must have had some balls back then to negotiate the London transport system at the age of sixteen when I was a country bumpkin. Stuff like that did not faze me at all.

"Ratrex"

Really I wanted to produce a spoof ad using Microsoft Image Creator (AI)  but certain words are vetoed by that system, including Trump, Republican Party and condom. I suspect that the current but very occasional resident of The White House would find a discreet private use for "RATREX" condoms or maybe he already uses these:-

or these:-

Haircut

"Monks" barbershop, Abbey Lane

This morning, I had the idea of walking to my favoured barbershop in the Woodseats suburb of the city. Normally I drive over there. It's more than two miles and there are a couple of hills to contend with. I gave myself plenty of time - setting off a full hour and twenty minutes before my appointment slot.

Down Carterknowle Road, along Bannerdale Road to Archer Road and then up Fraser Road to Holmhirst Road. I arrived on the main drag at Woodseats well ahead of time and marched into the KFC outlet where I ordered a Diet Pepsi to quench my thirst. Then it was on to the barbershop. The same fellow has been cutting my hair for twelve years.

"Usual Neil?" he always says and I confirm that I do not want a perm, highlights or a crewcut. I probably have my mop of hair cut every two months. Since schooldays, I have never worn my hair short. Blame The Beatles!

The barber is called Danny. He's 48 years old and happily married with two children. I guess I have got to know him pretty well through our conversations at the barber's chair. He is a very experienced hairdresser  and takes real pride in his work even though he himself is as bald as a coot. He always does a good job.

After the haircut, I walked along the main drag to a food outlet called "Urban Pitta". Their freshly made filled pittas are very scrumptious. I ate mine while sitting in the window with a can of Diet Coke, watching the world go by outside.

Then I checked out the book sections in a couple of charity shops but no luck! I was seeking a particular novel by one of the Brontë sisters - "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" by Anne Brontë, written in 1848 in The Parsonage at Haworth when Anne was just twenty eight.

I decided to catch a No.75 bus into the centre of the city and headed straight for the "Waterstones" bookshop in Orchard Square. Fortunately, they had one remaining paperback copy of the novel I was after.

At around two thirty, I caught a No.88 bus back home.

Later I was in the B&Q D.I.Y. superstore looking for a galvanised bucket in which to place our repotted aspidistra. There I met up again with a man who has worked in the store for twenty two years. Our main conversation topic is always rats.

They target bird food and grass seed and it is an ongoing battle to suppress them. It was nice to hear my "friend" say that he does not like killing any animals - even rats  and wished B&Q would use rat contraception methods. I joked that I would not volunteer to be the one to put the rat-sized condoms on the little blighters!

Self-Assessment

WARNING In this blogpost, your friendly correspondent drones on about personal health matters. If you find such subject matter tedious then I suggest that you depart immediately. Don't say I didn't warn you.

⦿

Till last October, I was quite proud to declare to anybody who cared to listen that I had never needed any regular medication and I felt as fit as a fiddle.  Not bad for a seventy one year old. Then - almost by chance - it was discovered that my blood pressure was too high - high enough to threaten me with a potential  stroke or heart issue. This is why I went along with the idea of trying to reduce my blood pressure with anti-hypertensive drugs.

I have had more doctor's appointments in the past nine months than I previously had in the rest of my life. Different doctors working at my local health centre have played around with my cocktail that includes the following - doxazosin, indapamide, ramipril, amlodopine and atorvastatin. Different strengths and different combinations.

Along the way I have had half a dozen blood tests and I have also been monitoring my own blood pressure with my "Omiron" machine that I bought from "Boots" last autumn. It has been quite a journey I can tell you.

On Tuesday of this week I had another doctor's appointment and at last my blood pressure readings had reached an average score that was within the NHS target zone for my age and gender -  136/69. Hurrah! However, there was a new problem to contend with - namely oedema in both my feet - undoubtedly caused by one of the medications but which one?

When I wake in the morning my feet are almost back to normal but as the day progresses, the swelling and fluid build-up in my legs has become so noticeable that I struggle to put on my most comfortable boots and shoes. I am not in pain as I write this blogpost but I can feel the tightness  and bulging in my lower legs.

As a consequence of this, the doctor wanted to investigate what might happen if I removed amlodopine from my anti-hypertensive cocktail. Well  ironically, one of things that is bound to happen is that my blood pressure will rise again but will I also see the oedema disappear? It's not something I have ever suffered from before - apart from stepping off long distance flights when not wearing pressure stockings.

Another issue that is of concern is my weight. Frankly, I weigh too much and it would be good for me in several ways if I could lose about three stones (42 pounds/ 19 kilograms). This has made me start thinking about weight-reducing medication. I am not entitled to receive it freely via the NHS because my BMI does not qualify for that kind of intervention.

The doctor checked my current medications and said that in principle there would be no problem with me also taking a weight reducing drug like tirzepatide (Mounjaro). I am thinking about it and of course googling it.

A bright spot on Tuesday was the discovery that my blood sugar score in relation to Type 2 diabetes has fallen - probably due to me cutting out sugar from hot drinks. Now I am almost embarrassed to admit that I have come to enjoy mint tea!

Husbandry

How long have we had this aspidistra? Certainly more than twenty years. It has suffered a lot of neglect and has had to endure long periods without being watered. If there was an organisation that worked against cruelty to houseplants, I would have been prosecuted long ago and shamed in local newspapers. "Guilty your honour!"

Aspidistras were very popular in English drawing rooms in the late Victorian era. The plant's natural homeland is  South East Asia and southern China. There it is and was mostly found in shady areas of sub-tropical forests. It is not fond of bright sunlight.

Aspidistras are great survivors and to be truthful they easily endure the kind of neglect that I have subjected our old plant to.

On Monday, for the first time ever, I brought it downstairs and into the daylight where I repotted it using fresh compost mixed with good quality top soil. I also watered the leaves with a watering can - not something it has ever enjoyed before.

In this balmy summertime, I will leave the plant outside for a few days longer - protected from direct sunlight. Last night we had a rain shower and that won't have done the aspidistra any harm at all.

I dealt with another plant on Monday. The bay tree outside our kitchen had simply grown too tall over the years so I reduced it by two feet using clippers and a saw. It was obscuring our view up the garden from our main kitchen window. Now the top of the little tree looks rough but it won't be too long before new shoots and leaves begin to appear.

We bought that tree twenty one years ago from a school fayre at my kids' old secondary school (American: high school). Then it stood about  twelve inches tall in a little pot. It clearly loves the position where I planted  it but I sometimes fret about possible root-related  damage - another good reason for giving it a severe haircut.

Funtime

 

Over at "Shadows and Light", Tasker Dunham made this assertion: "I bet you've never seen a boat named Tasker." This rang a bell in my head so I looked back through my extensive photo archives and found the picture shown above. I took it at Cayton Bay on the Yorkshire coast several years ago. It was little more than a rotting hulk then and I am sure that by now it has - to use a Trumpian term - been "obliterated" by North Sea waves.

Another "Tasker" boat was spotted on the lake at Roundhay Park in Leeds. This sturdy red pleasure craft may be hired out for £12 per hour and was once rented by former prime minister Rishi Sunak and his wife Akshata Murty, nine months before their first son, Taska, was born.

Meantime, entering the port of Immingham on The River Humber, I once spotted this huge oil tanker that had arrived on our shores from Nigeria. Can you see the name on the bow? It's "King Tasker" usually known as King Tasker the Munificent who was, I believe, the leader of  the Igbo people with fourteen wives and 64 children. He also ran a worldwide e-mail scam, harvesting money from the gullible and unwary.

Over the years, I have seen several other boats named "Tasker" - including a battered aluminium canoe on Derwentwater in The Lake District and a grey, homemade inflatable packed with desperate migrants on the beach at Pevensey in  East Sussex. They were being helped ashore by two elderly American migrants who were squatting in a beachfront property at the time with their "land shark" - Fido.