Grantham

Yesterday, with nice weather promised, I was in the mood for an adventure and a day's walking in unfamiliar countryside from a town I did not know at all.

I was up early in my cosy little room in "The Angel and Royal Hotel". It is a very historic hostelry that can trace its origins back almost a thousand years. Kings have stayed or held court there - including King John in 1213 and Richard III in 1483. Quite amazing really - just like the hotel's exorbitant breakfast prices.

After my shower, I was out into the morning sunshine. The town was bustling with work traffic and secondary schoolchildren in their various uniforms. I made for Thatcher's birthplace and then afterwards snapped the top picture of St Wulfram's Church before heading to St Peter's Hill for an economic breakfast and coffee in the town's only Wetherspoons pub - "The Tollmarche Inn".

St Mary Magdalene Church, Old Somerby

By 9.30am I was ready to begin my long country ramble, plodding east to Beacon Hill and then on to Cold Harbour, across the broad fields then down to the charming village of Old Somerby where I photographed the parish church - dedicated to St Mary Magdalene. By then I had walked almost five miles so I rested for a while in the sunshine and read another chapter of "John and Paul" by Ian Leslie. Sadly, the little church was locked. I would have loved to have a nosy round inside which is what I do whenever I find an open church.

St Guthlac's Church, Little Ponton

Suitably rested I plodded for a further four miles before sitting on a bench in the peaceful graveyard of St Guthlac's Church in Little Ponton. Like most old village churches in England it evolved through time so that the original eleventh century features are tricky to discern. Once again the door was locked so I ate an apple, drank water and read my book before striking north - back towards Grantham.

As the afternoon advanced, the sky clouded over.  From the water tower on Gorse Lane I descended to the southern edge of Grantham and walked through a tightly packed estate of modern houses. I couldn't ever see myself living in one of them. It was just an arrangement of boxes - no sense of community - and by packing them in so tightly the developers had clearly intended to maximise their profits.

Back in Grantham town centre by four o'clock, I was happily knackered. I went back to St Wulfram's Church to check out its magnificent interior then I bought a theatre ticket at The Guildhall. I had noticed there was a two man show on at 7.30pm - an adaptation of "Of Mice and Men" and I had also noted that the performance would only last for sixty five minutes, leaving me plenty of time to get back to Sheffield at a reasonable hour.

I was hungry and thought about a curry. Meals are served throughout the day at Wetherspoons so I was back there by five thirty. I ordered a sweet potato Kerala-style curry with rice and nan bread plus a pint of orange cordial and soda water. It was more than adequate. Then a mini chocolate brownie with ice cream and a coffee.

"The Nobody Inn"in Grantham

More reading time followed but I kept being bothered by a sixty-something Welshman with wide eyes, a woollen bobble hat and probably some mental health issues too. He wasn't unpleasant or aggressive  but he failed to read my non-verbal signals that yelled, "Please! Just leave me alone!" I was so relieved when he departed to catch his bus home after downing his third pint of Guinness.

I had a front row seat in "The Guildhall" and the two competent jobbing actors delivered a convincing, intense performance. Nigel Miles-Thomas was well cast as the lumbering Lenny while Michael Roy Andrew captured the quick-wittedness of George's character very well too. I was very glad I had bothered.

It all made for a great day out.

Sheep grazing near Woodnook Farm

Thatcher

There's a popular brand of cider in Great Britain called "Thatchers". Petty as this may seem, I have never bought or drunk any of it because of the name - "Thatcher". Of course it reminds me of our first female prime minister -  Margaret Thatcher. Would you drink "Trump" beer?

She was a very divisive figure and even today she remains something of a political goddess in the eyes of the right. In contrast, she is still reviled in many working class communities because of the damage she caused and the disdain she showed towards those communities.

Like many, I loathed her for who she was and what she did.

Thatcher was born in the Lincolnshire market town of Grantham. Her parents ran a grocery shop there. Until yesterday, I had never been to Grantham - apart from quick stops at the town's railway station when heading down to London.

Yesterday night I stayed at "The Angel and Royal Hotel" in the town centre before embarking on a very long country walk today.  I didn't get home until 10.15pm tonight. I will write more about that adventure tomorrow but tonight I am just giving you Thatcher-related images, including her statue on St Peter's Hill Green.

That statue was cast in black bronze which seems an appropriate colour choice for her - that darkness I mean. My close up of her black bronze head revealed  that spiders have been making webs on her - reminding me of Miss Havisham in "Great Expectations".

"Digger"

"Digger" starring Tom Cruise. I saw it today. It was not as I imagined it might be - about an Australian infantryman who dug trenches in World War I and played "Waltzing Matilda" on his grandfather's harmonica. No. This was something else entirely.

You have probably heard that "Digger" has been panned by many film critics and has nosedived at the box office. Many think it will lose more money than any other film in history. I am sure that the film makers never planned it that way. They probably thought that they had a big hit on their hands.

It was with that knowledge in mind that I went to see "Digger" anyway. Could it really be that bad? Surely, it had to have some merit. Thus I was at "The Showroom" for the 12.30 screening.

And I will say this about "Digger" - it held my attention throughout. I found it to be both odd and intriguing. 

At first you think you are watching a regular film about a megalomaniacal oil tycoon whose activity in the Arctic Circle is leading to an imminent climate disaster while he strokes his anamatromic  white cat. But as the film progresses you realise that that initial reality may be just an illusion. There's scenery, dressing rooms and an audience. You start to wonder what is real - if anything  and you wonder if the film really is commenting on the climate crisis. Is Digger himself meant to be a mere caricature?

It was hard to make sense of it all but there were many powerful cinematic moments. Officially it is a "dark comedy"  and there were certainly some chuckles along the way.

Perhaps "Digger" is  - as some critics have said - "up itself" but I did not feel disappointed as I walked home in sharp October sunshine. It was not predictable. It had used a range of clever film techniques and it contained some very capable film actors - not just Tom Cruise. 

If I lose interest in a film, my mind drifts away and I also look at my watch a few times with light borrowed from the silverscreen. That never happened with "Digger" so maybe it is not as awful as some are claiming. I was glad that I gave it a shot.

Beatles

Currently, I am reading a recently published book about The Beatles. It is titled, "John and Paul - A Love Story in Songs" and I like the approach that the writer takes. Each of the forty three short chapters focuses upon a different song from the Lennon and McCartney catalogue. Ian Leslie, the writer, is knowledgeable about the mechanics of music but he is also passionately interested in how The Beatles developed and how the selected songs reflected their evolution.

I was ten years old when The Beatles began to filter into Britain's consciousness - before they took America by storm. Though very young, I was already very much into popular music. Under the bed covers, I would listen to Radio Luxembourg on my transistor radio. The very first single that my brothers and I bought was "Return to Sender" by Elvis Presley. That came out in October 1962 and soon went to top spot in the charts. Another record that came out that month was "Love Me Do" by The Fab Four.

And that was when I started recording the British hit parade in a red exercise book. Every week I would write down the details of the top number and so I noted The Beatles' meteoric rise. "Please Please Me" hit number one in March 1963 and then they were off like a rocket ship.

Nothing before could compare with The Beatles. They had found their own provincial style, honed in Hamburg, Germany and they emerged into the light writing their own songs, making up their own musical rules as they went along. And of course at the heart of it all were two young men - John and Paul. They were both very aware of popular music trends in America.

Both of them had lost their mothers when they were far too young and John hardly knew his wayward father. They had grown up in post-war Britain, a country finding itself again. Old habits and certainties were being replaced and it was as if our nation's youth were ready to find their own music, their own heroes, leaving the past behind. You could rightfully claim that the circumstances were right for The Beatles and maybe The Rolling Stones too - along with several other lesser recording artists. Together they were breaking the mould.

This afternoon, I read the chapter titled "In My Life". Driven mostly by John, Paul helped to process it and give it its wings. However, at its core, you can still hear John, plaintively reaching out in his search for love and belonging. "In My Life" was recorded and first released in the last three months of 1965...

Memorial

Seeing the grave monuments to the Collins brothers at Shiregreen caused me to consider my own demise as I drove along the motorway to Hull this morning. Naturally, I was off to watch Hull City draw 2-2 at home to Everton.

I have decided that when I die, my family will be instructed to build a grassy mound in the middle of our local park - Endcliffe Park. On top of it will stand a marble statue of me in my prime. It will be twice my actual height making it exactly twelve feet tall.

The funeral ceremony itself will have no religious content whatsoever as I have never believed in that bumph. Instead there will be a couple of Yorkshire rock and roll bands - The Feisty Whippets and The Tweed Flat Caps along with poetry readings by two of my favourite bloggers - Steve Reed from London and Jennifer Barlow from South Carolina. 

Meike Riley will sing "Nessun Dorma" which means "no one shall sleep" and using only a ceremonial stainless steel garden spade, Roger (Cro Magnon) will be charged with digging the hole into which my bio-degradable cardboard casket will be lowered.

Australian bloggers Elsie and Andrew will perform an unclothed aboriginal war dance and Bob  Slatten who blogs out of Camden, South Carolina will take the mike from Meike to sing  "In The Ghetto" by Elvis.

It will be a marvellous affair - long to be remembered in the annals of Sheffield folklore. Afterwards, the thronging  crowd will be directed to Sheffield United's BramalL Lane Stadium where local Asian restaurateurs  will have prepared a sumptuous curry meal that no one present will ever forget as the  RAF Red Arrows  aeronautical display team weaves crisscross patterns in the sky.

If the Collins brothers  funeral legacy was meant to be impressive, it will not be a patch on my own. Yes that is the way I want it and it has all been clearly written down in my last will and testament. To defy my dying wishes would be abhorrent, almost unthinkable and frankly - sacrilegious.

Monuments

Not much happened today. The weather seemed temperamental with the distinct possibility of rain so a long country walk seemed out of the question.

Instead, I decided to drive over to the north eastern edge of Sheffield to visit Shiregreen Cemetery. It's something that I had been tempted to do for a while - ever since I first heard about the grave of William Collins. Anyway, today I got round to it.

"Who was William Collins?" I hear you ask. He was a member of Sheffield's traveller community with his roots in Ireland. He was born in Athlone in 1970 and died of natural causes in Puerto Pollensa, Majorca in 2020. He was without doubt a tough guy, famed for his boxing skills and at one time he was a bare knuckle fighter. In his community, he was known as "Big Willy Collins" and "The King of Sheffield". There were hundreds of mourners at his lavish funeral.

Following his interrment, his family spent thousands on a unique white marble monument with various interesting features - including a full-size statue of William in his boxing days and two large planters in the shape of boxing gloves.

The erection of this £200,000 monument attracted various complaints and Sheffield City Council claimed  that the family had not acquired the proper permissions. 

Then two years ago, another of the Collins brothers died. He was Michael Collins - born in 1973. He was buried close to his older brother but this time the family chose black marble for the thirty tonne grave monument. Again, it has several interesting features - including a juke box with a pint of Guinness and a Diet Coca Cola can carved on the front of it. I guess that Michael liked records or perhaps it is there to provide background music  for his afterlife.

When I got home, a little research told me two other brothers are buried in Shiregreen Cemetery. They were Terry and Anthony. Apparently, the latter was murdered by a drug dealer several years ago.

Personally I do not mind the lavish monuments. They are not harming anyone and if that's how the Collins family wished to honour their deceased loved ones then in my view it was up to them. William and Michael both died far too young which must have made their deaths feel all the more tragic.

Death

Today, mostly for a bit of exercise, I walked a mile to the "Waitrose" store by the inner city ring road. I made a few purchases - including two jars of Italian roast coffee granules, two bottles of my favoured "Essential Care" shampoo and conditioner and half a dozen eggs. Then I caught a bus home.

Almost as soon as I got in I noticed our main kitchen window. It was now smeared or something. It wasn't like that when I left the house.

"What's happened to the kitchen window?" I asked Shirley.

"Well I heard something hit it. I think it might have been a pigeon."

She asked me to look closer and I agreed with her that the ghostly shape seemed to suggest a pigeon's wings and beak and it was just the right size, If a pigeon had flown into the window glass, it was the first time it had happened in the thirty seven years we have lived in this house.

"Well was it a pigeon? Did you go outside to look?"

"No," said Shirley. "I was too frightened!"

"What?"

So Brave Sir Pudding unlocked the back door and sure enough, under the kitchen window was our kamikaze wood pigeon. Now deceased, kapput, no more, gone to pigeon heaven.

There was no funeral ceremony. Instead I picked the dead pigeon up by one of its wings and took it up the garden where it could nourish other creatures - magpies, crows and perhaps one of our neighbourhood foxes.

I found a big black folder and held it up to the window so that Shirley could capture the impact image with her smartphone (see top picture) and then five minutes later, two magpies were pecking at the pigeon's carcass. Later there was a hungry crow and as evening fell, a fox appeared at the feast, licking his lips.

⦿

And as I consider death, yesterday was my 73rd birthday so I myself am  a year closer to pigeon heaven now. We invited our next door neighbours - Jill and Tony to lunch out in The Peak District. I share my birthday with Jill who is now well into her eighties. I booked a table at "The Barrel Inn" in the hamlet of Bretton.

You go up narrow, winding lanes to reach the remote pub. At the gravel pull-in on Sir William Hill, I spotted a blue camper van and thought to myself - I have seen that van before!  Incredibly, it belongs to Ashley - a vlogger I blogged about here. And there was Ashley just outside the van putting her dog Apollo on his lead!

I determined that I would stop to speak with her after the lunch date but when we went back that way, the blue van was gone! I think the mathematical chances of such a sighting happening are incredibly remote. Almost like winning The National Lottery but with no five million pound prize attached!

Later, we had spaghetti at Frances's house and there was a lovely chocolate cake that Shirley had baked and decorated. Of course both Phoebe and Margot needed to have their own goes at blowing out my candles with repeat singing of the "Happy Birthday" song.

As humbly requested, Phoebe portrayed a tiger in her grandpa's homemade birthday card...

You might be able to make out an abstract fellow who is stroking the tiger and saying, "I love Tigers". That my friends, is a depiction of the author of this blog!