Vans

The world of vlogging is a bit of a mystery to me. However, we all know that there are people out there in the world making money from their YouTube vlogs. Some vloggers post new material every few days and attract thousands of loyal supporters and subscribers. These people have to be fed regularly with new stuff or they will simply drift away - possibly to find new vlogs.

Recently, I became aware that there are a lot of creators who claim to live outside the 9to5 rat race and travel in vans to different locations. Their vlogs will invariably take viewers along for the ride and frequently the vloggers will share their innermost thoughts.

Their vans are their homes - sometimes customised by the vloggers themselves. You might say that these van people are like modern day solitary  drifters with cameras and wifi and a few of them have drones as well. 

The concept is quite attractive to those of  us who live in houses with foundations. Maybe we will occasionally fantasise about getting away from it all to experience the freedom of the road so the van vlogs appeal to that kind of yearning.

Ashley Azzurro is from the southern suburbs of Manchester and she has a blue Ford Transit van. She also has a young sheepdog called Apollo. There's a kind of innocence about her output as she seeks pleasant, often secretive country locations to share with her audience. She is into wild swimming and the simple life.

Give the confusion, apprehension and bitterness that many people experience in the so-called "real world", Ashley's Vanlife is an oasis of niceness and rural simplicity where the only things that ever seem to go wrong are her old blue van's moving parts.

Of course, it might all be illusory. There could be someone else with her on her adventures and maybe she goes home to get a shower and a proper feed. She comes across as a sociable human so how does she survive solitude without her friends?

Mmm... Perhaps I should not have introduced that slight note of cynicism. It would possibly be better to take the channel at face value. If you are interested, here is one of Ashley's most recent videos. It is typical of the genre...

Leftovers

 Just ten random pictures I have taken in the last month - but not posted before...

The Union Hotel, Nether Edge, Sheffield

Statue of Emmeline Pankhurst in Manchester. She was a leading light in the 

British suffragette movement - campaigning for women to get the vote.

Our Phoebe as a butterfly at Sewerby Park

The author of this blog with a Lego sabre toothed tiger at Sewerby Park

Cobbler's dummy on Ecclesall Road, Sheffield

The Path to Rawmarsh from Parkgate

Railway footbridge at Halfway

Phoebe in the old bearpit - Sheffield Botanical Gardens

Dock plants one evening in Bingham Park Woods, Sheffield

The Royal Hallamshire Hospital, Sheffield - rising above the leafy suburb of Broomhill

And that's all for today folks!

Sisterhood

 

That's Phoebe and Margot on our doorstep on Sunday evening. Phoebe is five and has just begun her second full year at primary school. Margot will be three in November. What I especially like about this photograph is their sisterly hands wrapped in unity around each other. I sincerely hope that they will always be friends, always there for each other even though life might take them miles or continents apart. There won't be any more siblings - just the two of them.

This afternoon, I walked over to the neighbouring suburb of Nether Edge. It's a mile away. And there I thought of two other sisters who were born in Sheffield back in the 1930s. They lived in Number 36, Meadowbank Avenue which is a rather nice Edwardian cul-de-sac with a big green in the middle.

The sisters' names were Margaret and Antonia. Amazingly, they both became internationally acclaimed writers. People who read books will be familiar with both their names - even if you haven't actually read any of their work. As with Phoebe and Margot, there was a three year age gap.

Margaret retained her birth name - Margaret Drabble  while the older sister, Antonia, adopted the name from her first marriage - becoming A.S. Byatt. As I say, it's quite staggering that two girls from the same family should make it to the top - not just by getting their books published but gaining so many plaudits.

Margaret above and Antonia below

Antonia won The Booker Prize for Fiction in 1990 for her novel, "Possession: A Romance", while Margaret received the American Academy of Arts and Letters E.M.Forster Award in 1973, the same year that she became a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature by election.

It has often been said that as sisters they became estranged from each other as the years passed by. How much truth there is in that, I do not know, but if there was an enduring rift it was a real shame. Interestingly, I could not find any pictures of the two sisters together. They had so much in common and both spent countless days and nights crafting brilliant books. They could have been there for each other as I hope our Phoebe and Margot will always be.

36 Meadowbank Avenue - childhood home of Margaret Drabble and A.S.Byatt

Figures

On Saturday, I took the train over to Hull to watch The Tigers draw with Aston Villa. The kick off was at teatime but I travelled earlier in the day because I wanted to visit The Hull and East Riding Museum of Archaeology in the historical port city's old town. It's just a stone's throw from another museum - Wilberforce House - the former home of William Wilberforce, the famous anti-slavery campaigner.

Anyway, in the archaeology museum, two happy hours passed by as your genial correspondent absorbed information about East Yorkshire from its earliest geological beginnings to medieval times. There were many interesting exhibits to illustrate the story including complete Roman floor mosaics from two villas that were discovered in the region. One of them was at Rudston, close to the stone monolith I wrote about very recently.

However, it was another exhibit that left me awestruck. It was inside a climate controlled glass case. Two wooden figures standing on a wooden boat stared back at me from the mists of time. They are known as the Roos Carr Figures and they were found in wetland near the village of Roos in 1836.

Some labourers were digging a drainage ditch and two metres down, totally by accident, they came across a cache of carved wooden items. Some of the items were badly degraded but a few had miraculously survived several centuries in the earth, including The Roos Carr Figures.

They were carved from yew wood and that factor undoubtedly assisted their survival. Radio-carbon dating has indicated that the figures are approximately 2650 years old, carved during a  period that is now known as The Iron Age.

It is believed that there was once a shallow lake where the figures were found and it is speculated that they were left in the mud at the side of the lake as votive offerings to some ancient deity. The figures have detachable wooden penises but at least one expert has pointed out the when the penises are removed, holes that might represent vaginas are left. Perhaps the figures are androgynous.

Although carved from yew, the figures' eye sockets contain rather unnerving quartzite eyeballs.

I stared into that glass box for a few minutes as thoughts bounced around inside my skull. I thought of those swift-minded  labourers who had the presence of mind to stop their work and report what they had found. And I thought about the nineteenth century Hull Literary and Philosophical Society that first cared for the carvings. But mostly I thought about the community from which the strange figures emerged - speaking tantalisingly to future people like me or you.

There is still so much that we do not know.

998

Perhaps inspired by Grandmaw Moon over in northern Florida, I had it in mind to tackle a jigsaw. After all, isn't that one of the things that retired people are meant to do as they watch the clock ticking in God's waiting room?

Being a Yorkshireman, I am as tight as a duck's arse as we say in these parts. I was very reluctant to buy a new jigsaw. Couldn't I just purchase a secondhand one cheaply from a charity shop? Another determining point was this - the jigsaw image needed to be one that I wanted to work on as I knew it would take me hours to do. Google Gemini suggests that it takes  between twelve and twenty hours for a "beginner" to complete a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle.

In the middle of May, I was in the local "British Heart Foundation" charity shop  looking for branded "Old Fella" clothes when I spotted a jigsaw I knew I would like. It only cost £3 and the image was of a lovely village on the North Yorkshire coast that is familiar to me - Staithes just north of Whitby. "Yes!" I said to myself, "that's just the job!"

Anyway, a week later, I began. After what seemed like twelve to twenty hours I had almost completed the outer frame after sifting out all of the pieces with straight edges. I was making progress and then something happened. 

The best Yorkshire summer on record broke out and I did not want to pass my time indoors working on a jigsaw. I wanted to be out doing summery things like  surfing, attending musical festivals and running naked through forests. So the jigsaw was "put on hold" until normal British weather resumed. Staithes could wait.

Then ten days ago, I went back to the jigsaw. This time I set up a table in the front bedroom - right next to the window where  daylight would make the task easier.

In several sessions, I made steady progress though some gaps were hard to fill because mischievous pieces were hiding in plain sight. Doing that jigsaw was a practical challenge and gradually the finishing line came close. Of course, I always knew that there was a real possibility that not all one thousand pieces would be present and sure enough, as the last pieces were pressed home, it became clear that two pieces were missing.

I didn't know how I would feel about that. Would I rage in my "Old Fella" nightgown and toss an incomplete Staithes up in the air or would I calmly accept the reality? I am pleased to report that I was cool about the two missing pieces. It was okay.

However, the next time I decide to do a jigsaw it will be a new one and I will do it in the front bedroom in natural light - hopefully when it's grey outside and drizzle is steadily drizzling. But that won't be any time soon. I am jigsawed out right now.

Negatives

When the Blogger comments glitch happened earlier this week, I asked Google what was wrong and their Gemini AI facility  anticipated other, related questions including, "What  is the dark side of blogging?"

This is what Gemini coughed up and it may be of interest to other bloggers who like me are also actively steeped in the blogosphere and blog production.

⦿

The dark side of blogging involves hidden mental, social, and professional pressures that come with sharing your life and work publicly online.

Burnout and Time Demands

Constant content pressure: You must keep publishing new material to stay relevant, which can drain your creative energy.

No real vacations: Taking a break often means losing readers, search engine traffic, and income.

Hidden workload: Writing is only a small part of the job; research, editing, promotion, and technical upkeep take up most of your hours.

Mental Health and Obsession

Metrics addiction: Constantly checking stats, page views, and follower counts can become an unhealthy obsession.

Harassment and trolls: Public writing invites negative comments, harsh criticism, and unwanted direct messages.

Fear of judgment: Knowing friends, family, or strangers might judge your opinions can cause chronic anxiety.

Impact on Personal Life

Strained relationships: You may spend less time with loved ones because you are always glued to a screen or thinking about your next post.

Loss of privacy: Blurring the line between your private life and public brand means past statements are permanently archived and searchable.

Trapped by past views: Publicly stating an opinion locks your identity into that view, making it harder to change your mind later.

⦿

I  can recognise some elements of all of this but really if these effects  were  obvious and burdensome, it would surely be time to give up blogging and take up a safer, less public hobby such as watching paint dry or counting coins.

Connections

 

It has often appeared strange to me how things can be connected. One thing does indeed lead to another. As Freddie Mercury would have probably agreed, "It's a kind of magic".

Take the book I have just finished reading today - "The Goshawk" by T.H. White. I decided to read it because it meant and still means so much to my significant friend Richard Hines. He often refers to it.

He read it when he was in his late teens and it was this book that inspired him to acquire and "train" his own bird of prey inasmuch as a bird of prey can ever be trained.  Richard had no means of acquiring a goshawk so instead, balanced on a ladder, he surreptitiously took a young kestrel from the ruins of  Tankersley Old Hall just north of Sheffield and through that bird learnt the ancient art of falconry.

His older brother, Barry, observed Richard's new hobby and turned what he had seen into the basis of his famous novel, "A Kestrel for a Knave" which later became "Kes". It was first published in 1968 and afterwards became an iconic film which still resonates with the British public today.

Though Richard is poorly and housebound these days, his face still lights up when he talks about his own kestrel - also called "Kes" - and his involvement in making the film. It was a special time in his life. Another memory that never fails to illuminate his face concerns his visit to T.H. White's rundown and isolated gamekeeper's cottage in Buckinghamshire in the 1990s.

It was here that Terence Hanbury White attempted to train a goshawk in the late 1930s. His book, "The Goshawk" reveals the difficult process involved, the commitment required, the sleepless nights and the trial and error approach he was obliged to take because there was no one he could call upon for guidance.

 Just to give you a taste, here are two short extracts from the book:-

What a bursting heart of gratitude and triumph as the ravening monster slowly paced down the arm with gripping steps and pounced upon his breakfast! The rest of the day was a glow of pleasure, a kind of still life in which the sun shone on the flowers with more than natural brilliance, giving them the high lights of porcelain.

&

It happened like this in the world. Old things lost their grip and dropped away; not always because they were bad things, but sometimes because the new things were more bad, and stronger.

White's life often seemed troubled and living in an isolated cottage with a rare hawk appealed to him because this arrangement provided a welcome retreat from the world. He was also something of a genius  - very knowledgeable about Shakespeare, England's medieval history and Arthurian legends. Did you ever see the Disney film , "The Sword in the Stone"? It was based upon a book of the same name - by T.H. White!

So yes - it's funny how things can be connected - like links in a chain. Without "The Goshawk" there would have been no "Kes" and I would never have met Richard Hines and talked with him for hours about his life, his memories of his kestrel and his brother Barry. And I would never had to present or "teach" "Kes" to hundreds of children in the three South Yorkshire schools that I worked in.

T.H.White (1906-1964)

Branding

When it comes to apparel, why are so many people obsessed with branding? Let me say straight away that I am not. In fact, I go the other way and actively seek out items that have no obvious signs of branding logos and the like. I have even been known to snip off or unpick designer labels.

And yet for many there is comfort in the labelling and branding. It is as if they are perfectly happy to go about advertising the companies that manufactured the clothing and footwear they purchased - often at large expense. They probably think that people like me are just plain weird... "Did you see that bloke? It was impossible to spot which brands he was wearing!" and maybe, "What's wrong with him?"

I grew up in a world without obvious branding  - apart from that which appeared on motor vehicles. Mostly things were plain and it was impossible to discern what brands other people were wearing - not that anyone was bothered of course. And this was even true of sportswear.

I don't bristle very much when the logos or brand names are quite small and discreet but when the labelling is big and brash, I shake my head as I look on. Why? and What's going on? Why have people allowed themselves to be sucked into the branding game where the items you wear seem somehow to speak of your perceived status?

Sleep

David at "Adventures of Travel Penguin" has a well-organised blog that includes regular features. Every Sunday he comes up with five themed questions under the umbrella title - "The Sunday Five". You never know what the theme might be.

For example, this past Sunday the questions were all about the coffee chain, "Starbucks":-

1: Would you stop at this Starbucks, it is between the train station and the Palace of Versailles?
2: When was the last time, you had something from a Starbucks?
3: How do you feel about those who believe Starbucks is evil?
4: Describe your local alternative to Starbucks?
5: What is your order at Starbucks?

As it happens, I have only been in one Starbucks - primarily to use their lavatory but feeling slightly guilty about it, I must confess that I then bought an iced coffee. It was a very hot day - earlier this summer. This was on the day I travelled to Uttoxeter to undertake a long country walk.

Anyway, that doesn't matter. The main point is I like David's "Sunday Five" idea and that is why I respond  to his questions most Sundays.

At the risk of legal action from a fellow who is well-versed in the law, I am going to borrow his idea this evening as I present "The Yorkshire Pudding Wednesday Six". You are invited to respond in the comments but if you don't feel like it please just go back to sleep. In fact my theme this evening is sleep!

1. On average how many hours sleep do you get each night?

2.  What do you tend to wear in bed - if anything!?

3. If you wake up in the middle of the night, how do you get back to sleep?

4. How often do you remember dreams and what do you tend to dream about?

5. On a normal night about what time do you go to bed?

6. In your opinion, what is the best thing about sleep?

Thank you for your anticipated participation.  All data collected will be studied, reflected upon and analysed before being jettisoned into outer space.

Misnamed

Everybody knows that the current president of the USA got some people to create his own social media channel so that he could exert full control of the propaganda he spews out to the world. He called that channel "Truth Social" which seems a very inappropriate name when you consider the falsehoods and undiluted egotism that the channel pumps out like waste from a chicken farm.

Dozy Don is up most nights - well into the early hours - creating and sanctioning AI slop. Some nights he will publish fifty "truths" which would invariably be better named "untruths". No wonder he often seems half asleep in the daytime.

Is this the way that leaders in the western world should communicate with the public? In the past, there was suitable decorum and filtering as presidents employed official channels to make their pronouncements. But not Dozy Don - on no! He's simply pressing "publish" all the time and does not seem to give a damn about the hideousness of the content

He's like a teenage boy playing late night computer games and fantasising like hell. And of course there's never any apology about the unseemly tackiness of it all and the blatant manipulation of genuine truth. Last week my head shaking got even more shaky when I saw the AI image that he posted of himself with the late Dolly Parton as they strolled arm in arm along the colonnade at The White House. Dolly had died just two days before.

Dolly Parton was a kind woman, a good human being who knew the meaning of humility and generosity. She represented the true heart of America. Her fake companion in the image below would not have been good enough to clean her rest rooms at Dollywood let alone to stroll with her.

So often the raging narcissist has banged on about "fake news" and the "bad" reporters who produce that alleged fakery when ironically his misnamed social media channel seems to be entirely and obviously fake as all the attached images ably demonstrate.

A hideous idea

Zeal

My classroom (Room 30) in 2008

During my teaching career, I never missed a day because of illness or other health matters - well, not for thirty six years anyway. It was only in the last two years that I missed a few days because of two short  hospitalisations. I could hardly say to the doctors, "Let's delay this till the school holidays".

I enjoyed robust good health and if a cold or flu symptoms came along I just battled through. Days off were for the weak. And as for dental appointments - they happened exclusively during my holidays.

For the last twenty years of my career I was the Head of English, leading a team of ten English specialists. Teachers came and teachers went. I was the only consistent figure, holding it all together and in many ways leading by example.

One time, a temporary post was filled by Nigel - an itinerant teacher from Leeds. Another member of my team - Emma - related this conversation to me. Nigel had asked her, "What's the score with sickies here?". Emma had replied, "Sickies? We never take them unless we're genuinely ill. Neil never misses a day." She told me that Nigel had been surprised. It seemed he was used to working in English departments where staff regularly took days off. Perhaps they had sickie rotas or something. 

Looking back, I realises that I was as zealous as a missionary - bringing English to the English. What could be more important than helping our nation's youth to gain good qualifications in English?  A good grade could be the stepping stone to a better future. Besides, English was civilising and personally enriching. It was not just about the grades.

I marked pupils' assignments deep into countless nights. I thought it was all so important. After all, I could not name any job that was more important. Teaching English mattered more than making money or working for a profit-focused business.

Now, years later, and with the benefit of hindsight, it does not seem so vitally important after all. There are many other jobs that are more important or equally as important if indeed importance is ever a useful measure.

Society is like a jigsaw and we need all the pieces to make it whole. They all have their places - the road sweeper, the airline pilot, the hotel cleaner, the tech entrepreneur, the farmer, the hospital nurse, the miner, the singer songwriter,  the car mechanic, the physicist, the shop assistant, the factory assembly line operative, the soldier, the stay-at-home mum, the banker, the baker, the candlestick maker  and yes the English teacher too.

We all belong to this human ant colony and during our working lives we perform interconnected roles, dependent upon each other.  Vocational zeal should be tempered by that simple truth.

Rambling

Blooming heather with Stanage Edge beyond on Friday

Frances, Stewart, Phoebe and Margot have been away from Sheffield for the past ten days. They have been in a terrible region called "Down South" - visiting Stewart's aunties, Peppa Pig World and friends who live in Bournemouth.

Meantime, here in the blessed region of "Up North", we have been filling our time and missing them all - especially the two little girls because we love them entirely. It is hard to remember how life was before those two little characters stepped into our world. But they will be back tomorrow, Back in Grandparent World which is probably quite similar to Peppa Pig World. I am Grandpa Pig.

Here in England, most schools will re-open on Thursday - a sure sign that summer is over and autumn is just around the corner. But what a summer we have enjoyed! A time of shorts and sandals and sheltering  from the golden orb. The grass turned beige and doom-mongers warned us "The End Is Nigh".

Normally I prepare family Sunday dinners and I enjoy doing that but for the past two Sundays we have been "out" for our Sunday dinners. A rare treat.

Last Sunday, we visited "The Lescar" on Sharrowvale Road. As usual the meals were brilliant - prepared lovingly in a hidden kitchen by a chef who knows what he is doing. The standard had not fallen. And the atmosphere in the pub was very pleasant and peaceful. It is a pub I have known since 1978 and it is little changed.

Today we went to the popular "Broadfield" on Abbeydale Road. It was busy and noisy too. You could hardly hold a conversation but our meals came quickly and mine was good.  Less "love" than in the hidden kitchen at "The Lescar" but still very tasty. I am glad that I went for the roasted half chicken and not the brisket that Shirley chose. I tried it and it was disappointingly bland.

With the noisy babble in the pub we left as soon as our meal was over and drove on to deliver a "New Born" congratulations card to one of Frances's long time friends. Sinnead gave birth last week and has been struggling to adjust to her new situation. Unusually, she stayed in hospital for a full week with the little boy who has still not been given a name. Thankfully, she is out of hospital now but we are all worried about her mental state and how she will cope with things.

For some women. giving birth to a small human is not entirely joyous. There can be anxiety, trauma and post-natal depression. Though the new baby was hugely wanted, Sinnead cannot help how she has been feeling. She never intended to be blue or traumatised but she has many friends, a good man by her side and practical, supportive parents who still live in Sheffield. I hope she pulls through and gives that little boy a name before long. I would suggest Neil but strangely that name is not very popular these days.

Juvenilia

You have to start somewhere I guess. Today I stumbled across a bunch of poems I wrote in my mid-teens - around 55 years ago. As a child, I loved written words - not just reading other people's words but actively trying to string my own words together to make stories and poems. I think that my creative urge was innate and there was nothing I could do about it. It was just there.

Several of the poems are about romantic love and a deep adolescent longing to be with someone, to connect, to find a soulmate. Looking back through the years I find these poems interesting in that they reflect my teenage immaturity and inexperience. Something is stirring in me and I am trying to give it wings to fly. It's like I'm feeling my way through the dark. I wrote this in 1969:-

MY PRECIOUS PERHAPS

Perhaps, one day, there will be me

and there will be you

And we shall have a love

To share -

For better or for worse.

But now for me there's disillusion

And for you there's someone else

But I can wait with memories

And my precious "perhaps"...

I feel better about the following poem written in 1970. Here I am not grasping at romantic love - something I knew so little about - but simply trying to process my feelings about an observed sunset at the coast. I am picking my words with some care, to produce a mood, an atmosphere connected with seasons changing and time marching on.

OCTOBER SUNSET

Colours which kiss like water

Across the day's death

Leave us as cold, grey shapes at windows watching

The pastel pools, forever merging

Beg the night crows come to swim

And through the rippling water rings

The dying summer fondly sings

Her annual farewell

We melt into the darkness, wondering...

In 1965 I was sentenced via scholarship to a posh school in Hull after passing my Eleven Plus exam with flying colours. They had a school magazine  called "The Hymerian" and it always contained selected poems by boys from different year groups.

In 1968, they published one of my poems. I remember picking the idea of a scrapyard or city dump location to deliberately cock a snook at the poshness of the posh school. I detested that institution and transferred to Beverley Grammar School sixth form at the age of sixteen. It was one of the best moves I ever made. By the way, I admit that I knew as much about scrapyards and dump sites as I knew about romantic love!

THE CONTENTED KING

Amid a mound of rust and wire

Of baked bean tins and Dunlop tyres

Sits the king of the county council tip

A Morris Oxford '46.

Its deep black sheen has long since gone

A coat of dust it has put on.

The pompous king stares at the view,

The black oil cans, the vintage crew

Of four stroke cars and Singer prams

Old motorbikes and wheels of trams

Abandoned by the corporation

Because of loss of automation.

After work the youngsters flee

To this ferrous Gethsemane

And there they're met with admiration

From the metallic congregation

And every door its handle lends

And every seat a welcome sends.

From the top of his rusty fell

Past Trafford Park and Dingle Dell

Are bubbling seas and golden sands

But the king knows not of those distant lands.

And so he governs all he sees

Contented e'er more to be.

And so for today that is enough I think. Maybe I will share more such juvenilia in a future post. As I recall I have previously shared the story of another of my adolescent poems in this blog. It was titled "And Now The South" - inspired by the tragic tale of Robert Falcon Scott's expedition to The South Pole in 1912. If interested, please go here.

Renaming

A certain someone, whose flatulent name I shall not utter, has taken it upon himself to change names that have in at least two instances existed for hundreds of years. Just yesterday, in a fit of pique, the tetchy  old man decided that Lake Ontario would henceforth be known as Lake America. I was astounded but then it suddenly occurred to me that if that dumbass (English: idiot) can change customary names then so can I . Here we go...

Don Junior and Eric - Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum

Mar-a-Lago -  Palm Beach Lunatic Asylum

Ivanka - Barbie Girl

Jared Kushner - Captain Lapdog

Melania - The Snow Queen

Barron - Lurch

Natalie Harp - Sweetie Pie Darling Honeybunch

Robert F. Kennedy Junior - Mister Lobotomy

Pete Hegseth - Buzz Nightmare

The White House - The Brown For Now House

Trump International Golf Links (Aberdeen, Scotland) - The Gulf of Mexico

Trump National Golf Club Bedminster - Lake Ontario

"Shadows & Light" (blog) - "Plant World"

"Magnon's Meanderings" (blog) - "Mein Kampf"

"Yorkshire Pudding" (blog) - "Truth Social"

"Truth Social"  (social media platform) - "Falsehood Anti-Social"

Vladimir Putin - Satan

Trumpton (BBC children's TV  town) - Barackton

Black - White

White - Black

Well, I could go on - renaming this and renaming that but renaming stuff is quite tiring so I will give it a rest for now. And while I am snoozing can you come up with any other renaming suggestions? For instance can you rename the demented fool who chose to change Lake Ontario's name  instead of  reflecting upon the disaster in Nepal in an appropriately statesmanlike manner? Presidents Obama and Biden would certainly have done that but of course they were both far better and wiser men. 

Thank you for your ATTENTION to this matter! Y. N. Pudding

P.S. Note to the intellectually challenged cartographer. If you are using capital letters then  stick with them.  Do not arbitrarily mix up capitals and small case letters. I am thinking in particular of your two es and your letter i. This advice is given freely.

Manchester

Statue to blind World War One returnees

On Tuesday morning, Shirley and I took a train to the city of Manchester. I had not been there in ten years, even though it is only thirty five miles from Sheffield. Between our two great northern cities there's a chain of hills - The Pennines - often referred to as "the backbone of England". Many Lancashire people never cross those hills and it's the same over here in Yorkshire. We are all northerners but somewhat disconnected.

We were mainly heading to Manchester to visit The National Football Museum and Manchester Cathedral but I agreed with Shirley that she would have some shopping time. She is not the only woman who loves to have a mooch round shops whereas I, like most blokes, view that activity as a kind of slow mental torture.

After leaving Picadilly Station we made our way towards the Arndale Shopping Centre but first we found ourselves walking down one of Manchester's most famous streets - Canal Street which is the epicentre of the city's "Gay Village". With its bars and clubs and eateries it is a neighbourhood in which gay people can be quite open and confident in their associations. 

Times have changed for the better in that regard. Once homosexual people had to function in veiled secrecy, often watching their backs. I am not saying that all prejudice and discrimination has gone - it hasn't - but it seems to me that the wider society is far more accepting of gay culture than it once was. Canal Street is part of that change and this weekend, Manchester will host its forty first Pride Weekend.

Canal Street

Ten years on I was impressed with Manchester city centre. It was buzzing and though it pains me to say this, it certainly felt like the northern capital. There has been a lot of upward building, more pedestrianised streets, more public art and for a Tuesday there were a lot of visitors - mostly I am sure from the Greater Manchester region which includes big towns like Oldham, Wigan, Stockport, Rochdale and Altrincham.

We had lunch in Manchester Art Gallery  cafe and went upstairs to check out two galleries that contain works  by one of my favourite artists: Manchester-born L.S.Lowry ( 1887 - 1976).

"An Island" by L.S.Lowry (1942)

Then it was on to the cathedral which I had never visited before and nearby was The National Football Museum. In there I wore a virtual reality headset for the first time and played the part of a goalkeeper though the steward in charge told me not to dive as a proper goalkeeper does.

I also tried my hand at commentating on a "Match of the Day" game before watching the replay. I may have missed my vocation!

There were lots of football-related exhibits but I was miffed because of the murky lighting. Explanatory labels were very difficult to read and I wished I had taken a torch with me (American: flashlight). I was further miffed that there was hardly any reference to the big part that Sheffield played in the gestation of modern football.

The National Football Museum

This city is home to the world's first proper football clubs - Sheffield F.C. and Hallam  F.C. and Hallam's Sandygate Road ground is the oldest football ground in the world.. Furthermore the "Sheffield Rules" for football formed the basis of The English Football Association rules that followed  later in the nineteenth century. The National Football Museum should celebrate these facts in my humble opinion but of course it is in Manchester.

Rather than heading back to the railway station at teatime we had drinks on Canal Street and then went to the Arnero Restaurant for a traditional North Indian curry meal.

It was a grand day out. In "Uniglo"  Shirley bought herself some trousers and two tops while I chatted with a horse dealer from Stockport. It seems that his wife also suffers from the shopping virus. The train home was on time and Butch was waiting dutifully for us at Dore and Totley Station.

View from the west door of Manchester Cathedral

Quiztime

As Frances from Hertfordshire, England reminded me the other day - there hasn't been an episode of "Quiztime" on this blog for quite a while. So here we go. The theme is arches and all you have to do is decide where the arch is located - choosing from four alternatives. You will find the correct answers in the comments section. Good luck!

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1. (a) Delhi, India (b) Singapore (c) Budapest, Hungary (d)  Bombay, India

2. (a) Brussels, Belgium (b) London, England 

(c) Melbourne, Australia (d) Athens, Greece

3. (a) Madrid (b) St Petersburg (c) Paris (d) Vienna

4. (a) Syria (b) Lebanon (c) Mexico (d) Malta

5. (a) Lisbon, Portugal (b) New York, USA 

(c) Tirana, Albania (d) Toronto, Canada

6. (a)  Edinburgh (b) Athens (c) Avignon, France (d) Rome

7. (a) Saudi Arabia (b) Japan (c) The Philippines (d) North Korea

8. (a) Cleveland, Ohio (b) San Francisco, California

(c) New Orleans, Louisiana (d) St Louis, Missouri

9. Sadly this natural arch collapsed in 2021

(a) The Orkney Islands, Scotland (b) The Galapagos Islands, Ecuador

(c)  Lofoten Islands, Norway (d) Chatham Islands, New Zealand

10. (a) Canada and USA border (b) Poland and Germany border

(c) North Korea and South Korea border (d) Ukraine and Russia border

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That's all folks! How did you do?