Peacefulness

 

You never know what you are going to get. Monday was grey and chilly with rain. Tuesday came with blue skies and sunshine so I marched away from the house. My route took me up to the top of Greystones Road then down through the woods into The Porter Valley. I took extra care during my descent because of the stormy, wet weather we had just experienced and the fallen leaves all around. Potentially, a lethal combination.

From Forge Dam I ascended the hill to Fulwood aiming to catch a bus to Broomhill or Hunters Bar.

My first two pictures were taken in the affluent suburb of Fulwood from 

viewpoints just five yards apart. The street is called Chorley Road

We have got decorators in our house at the moment, patiently working on the heart of the home - hallway, staircase and landing so it was good to get out. I don't know why exactly but having workmen in our house for any period of time really puts me on edge even when they are as professional and considerate as our decorators have been.

We will be paying them a king's ransom for the transformation - soon to be followed by the expense of new floor coverings but as they say - it will all be worth it in the end. No pain = no gain.

Fulwood's elegant war memorial

Talking about pain, I was appalled by recent comments from The President of The USA. Once again, he was banging on about the "injustice" of not being awarded The Nobel Peace Prize. In his crazy wrath, he seemed to equate The Nobel Committee with the kingdom of Norway when in reality the only connection is that the Nobel organisation is based in Norway. How could he be so stupid?

Then he referred to Norway as a "s**thole" of a country, causing many members of his partisan rally crowd to guffaw with laughter. Why? What he said was so wrong, so coarse and so undiplomatic. And that leaves aside the ridiculousness of  even contemplating the idea of giving the Nobel Peace Prize to an arrogant, unpredictable world leader who has created an unnecessary war upon Iran and who sides with Putin, the aggressor, in his war upon Ukraine. Where's the peacefulness in that?

In the woods on Greystones Cliffe, approaching Hangingwater Road

Hero

Robin Hood? Winston Churchill? Richard the Lionheart? Paul McCartney? Last night in London, a new English hero was unveiled - none other than the captain of our nation's football team - Mr Harry Edward Kane. He won the prestigious Ballon d'Or, awarded annually to the world's best footballer.

The winner is chosen by a hundred leading sports journalists from the top hundred footballing nations.

Harry is a worthy winner. He is a humble man from a working class East London family and reaching the pinnacle of football was by no means an easy journey for him. He had to work hard to get there, overcoming plenty of disappointments and self-doubts. As a teenager, he trained after the other lads had gone home, educating his left foot to become as lethal as his right boot.

Whereas some top players move around from club to club, Harry has really only had two clubs during his career - Tottenham Hotspur from London and Bayern Munich over in Germany where he currently plays. In his club career, he has scored 329 goals and 91 goals at full international level. However, Harry is more than a goalscorer, he is a team player. With his excellent heading ability, he can be very effective in defence and he is a great long distance passer of the ball too. Reflecting on his career, last night Harry Kane wrote this: "Work hard in silence. Let success be your noise" and that remark kind of sums him up. It is why he is a good leader on the pitch - other players follow his example.

By the way, in the header picture I notice the little poppy on his lapel to remember Great Britain's war dead. Discreet and unremarked by others.

Speaking of Harry's Ballon d'Or success, former England and Newcastle legend Alan Shearer said, "I think the best thing for me is how humble Harry is. Footballers are like movie stars nowadays. You see them walking down the red carpet and some of them are in sunglasses when it's pitch black and eight o'clock at night. Harry is just normal, as normal as they come."

That remark about the sunglasses made me chuckle.

Sadly, I have just heard that The President of The United States is very resentful about Harry's award and believes that he should have got The Ballon d'Or instead. It would look so great in The Oval Office next to his FIFA Peace Prize and Maria Corina Machado's Nobel peace prize  that he has, of course, now stuck inside a vulgar gilded frame.

Well done Harry!

Hughes

 

Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

⦿

Edward James Hughes (Ted) was born in the village of Mytholmroyd in West Yorkshire in 1930. After a life in Literature during which he rose to become England's Poet Laureate, he died at the age of sixty eight in a London hospital while receiving treatment for colon cancer. He had received the prestigious Order of Merit just a few weeks before. 

Hughes's birthplace in Mytholmroyd

At Ted Hughes's funeral in Devon, another giant of post-war poetry, Seamus Heaney, said this:-

"No death outside my immediate family has left me feeling more bereft. No death in my lifetime has hurt poets more. He was a tower of tenderness and strength, a great arch under which the least of poetry's children could enter and feel secure. His creative powers were, as Shakespeare said, still crescent. By his death, the veil of poetry is rent and the walls of learning broken."

Skeleton

 

Oh my, who is that in the skeleton costume last Thursday evening.? Why- it's none other than our five year old granddaughter Phoebe! It is after school but she is about to go back there for the school's Halloween party where there will be hot dogs, candyfloss, scary tattoos and disco music.

Back in my day, Halloween was not a thing in this kingdom but through American influence and films, the notion of Halloween "celebrations" or events has gradually crept into our culture. I suppose it's no surprise that  America's current president is actually a big orange pumpkin with an empty head where a candle flickers dimly ahead of the midterms.

His appearance is even scarier than that  of a five year old skeleton girl. 

By the way, Phoebe had a great time at the Halloween party. Fortunately, Big Orange Pumpkin Man did not turn up to scare the  little schoolchildren away.

24/10/81

24/10/81 or as those crazy Americans would record it - 10/24/81. Yes my friends, on this very day exactly forty five years ago, I married my sweetheart Shirley in St Martin's Church, Owston Ferry, Lincolnshire. It was the happiest day of my life.

On that day, we could have never imagined that we would still be together forty five years later. Two children. Two ectopic pregnancies. Three grandchildren. Memorable holidays, thousands of meals and the comforting rhythm of ordinary days passing by. Ups and downs. Together.

Today, to celebrate, we went out to a local restaurant for a three course prix fixe lunch with glasses of New Zealand sauvignon blanc. The french onion soup they served as a starter was the best I have ever had - savoury and thick with slow-cooked onion slices and crispy onions on top with a slice of toasted rye bread with cheddar cheese beside the bowl.

Back home, to mark our anniversary in a special way, I continued pulling up the old carpeting from our staircase, the hallway and the landing. For the first time in our married life we have hired professionals to decorate the area next week and afterwards there'll be new carpeting and hopefully a much happier appearance. It had been looking quite tired for a few years.

That day in 1981, during my school's October half term holiday, the weather was blustery but dry. After our budget reception in a local pub, we drove down to Lincoln for our budget wedding night and two days later, I carried Shirley over the threshold of the terraced house we had just bought in the Crookesmoor area of Sheffield.

It was time to set to with decoration and carpet laying, as we embarked on our married life together. Forty five years... and for my Lincolnshire lass, here are forty five kisses: 

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Jettisoned

Looking at my "Blogorama" sidebar, I note that three once favoured blogs are now no longer active. The time has come to cast them from the good ship "Yorkshire Pudding". Let them float upon The Sea of Blog Memory until they wash up on The Island of Lost Blogs.

Some of you will remember Bruce Taylor (centre), the comic mastermind who produced "Oddball Observations" at his home in Prescott Valley, Arizona. Sadly, Bruce lost his wife Judith at the start of this year and then, as so often seems to happen with older couples, Bruce died on March 24th. I have kept his blog in my sidebar as a mark of respect but now it's time to let it go. Bruce is never coming back.

Fourteen months ago, my favourite Anglo-Irish blogger Dave (left) told his regular visitors that his wife Jean had died very unexpectedly. His blog was and is called "Northsider" because he lives on the north side of The Sheep's Head Peninsula in County Cork. Since that tragic time, Dave has only blogged once more and throughout this calendar year he has been totally silent.

Maybe "Northsider" is only mothballed and it is quite possible that Dave will return but I have the feeling that he may have left the blogosphere for good. If he comes back, I will be happy to reinstall his blog in my star-studded sidebar.

And then there's "Eagleton Notes", distilled on The Isle of Lewis in Scotland by senior blogger Graham Edwards (right). There was a time when Graham refreshed his blog twice a week but gradually his output has dwindled and I am afraid he hasn't added a new blogpost since Jume 22nd when he explained his reduced blogging commitment with this remark: "I keep getting sidetracked with life". He was just about to go down to Glasgow for another important hospital appointment so I am actually worried about him. Did he get back home?

Perhaps we will never know. Graham was always kind-hearted and sensible which is how he approached other people's blogs. Frankly, I miss him and I hope he returns to blog again. Then he will be reinstated in the sidebar faster than a ferret up a trouser leg which is a metaphor that would surely make Graham chuckle.

Nothing lasts forever and here in the blogosphere people come and go. Things change. I guess it's just the way of the world. In the meantime, as I cast those nice fellows off, I not only salute Bruce and Dave and Graham, I toast them too..."To life's incredible journey! Cheers!"

Autumn

Today was haircut day for me. I have a haircut roughly every twelve weeks - something like that. My appointment was for two thirty so before I went over to Woodseats, I decided to burn off some calories with an extended walk in our neighbourhood.

It's clearly autumn out there right now and on Sunday morning British households will once again go through the rigmarole of putting our clocks back an hour to mark the end of BST (British Summer Time). Why can't they just let time plod along instead of arresting it twice a year? Ridiculous.

The top picture shows Brincliffe Edge Road - just three hundred yards from our house. I love roads like that where trees arch over and the road itself takes on the appearance of a tunnel. That road soon leads to Chelsea Park where this unidentified yellow tree was clearly singing its autumn lament.

And then on well-heeled Chelsea Road I noticed leaves gathering in clusters or up against walls, making late October collages without human assistance...

I like the look of this modern house squeezed into a triangular plot on a short road called Brincliffe Gardens. Fallen leaves are gathering in the driveway waiting for the householders to bring out their garden rake and sweeping brush. It's the same on our little driveway. The lost leaves gather annually like confetti drifts in a churchyard.

Home from the haircut, I noticed the volunteer sumac tree in our garden blazing red in late afternoon sunshine with its weird furry staghorn spears pointing to the skies above. 

And so yes, that summer of summers has truly gone now and we are most definitely under autumn's spell, waiting for the darkness where Jack Frost resides, already cracking his knuckles.