Striding

Stake Hill Road

This morning I needed to get out of the city, be in the countryside, burn off some calories by undertaking a long circular walk. Breathe in some country air and be alone with my thoughts.

Trouble is, during my retirement I have walked everywhere within shouting distance of Sheffield - every geographical square and pretty much every public footpath. So I have to keep going back to places. None of the thrill of virgin territory but at least I get my steps in - thousands of them. I took my camera too.

My sleek Puddingmobile - a gun metal grey Nissan Juke called Butch - transported me to Hollow Meadows on the A57. Then I turned up Rod Hill and deposited Butch in a little pull-in where I have parked several times before. It's safer to leave my metal companion off the narrow road.

With boots on, I set off on the first day of October in glorious sunshine. The temperature was mild. Fluffy white banks of cumulus clouds lolloped in a north easterly direction, further into Yorkshire. I strode along a moorland track called Stake Hill Road where many of the old drystone walls are ill-maintained these days. There's far less sheep farming than there was in times gone by so there's no practical reason for repairing the walls.

Down into the Bradfield Valley where Dale Dyke Reservoir sprawls innocently trying to keep its terrible secret quiet. It was on the night of March 11th 1864 that its dam burst and three million cubic metres of water surged down the valley to Sheffield causing some 240 deaths and  the destruction of 600 homes.

Then along the valley and up towards Sugworth Hall. I took a rest on a wooden stile and closed my eyes in the honeyed sunshine for five minutes before schlepping up to Boot's Folly. By the way, the Yiddish verb "to schlep" does not have to involve carrying anything. It can just describe slow movement - rather like trudging along.

And then Boot's Folly appeared. Sometimes called Boot's Tower, I have blogged about it before. It occupies a prominent position at the head of the valley. In this picture you can see Dale Dyke Reservoir below...

Soon my circle was complete. Back at Butch I ate an orange and an apple and swigged water from my flask as I read a chapter of "All Together Now?" which no doubt I will review when I have finished it. It continues to engage me.

Then back to Sheffield where I was in time to pick Phoebe up from her school playground. The teacher told me she had been involved in some naughtiness at lunchtime with a classmate - barring some new reception children from the Y1 toilets. Naturally we had words as we walked back up the hill to our house.

The last photograph I snapped today was of Bent's Farm on the edge of the moors. Whimsically, I have often thought that if I ever became wildly rich, that is where I would like to live - in glorious peace but only half an hour from Sheffield city centre. No doubt "The Laughing Horse" Blogging Awards Party would take place there every New Year's Eve.

Proposal

Back in the winter of 2014, a vivid dream woke me. It was as if an outline plan for a bestselling novel had arrived in my brain fully formed. I leapt out of bed and ran downstairs then I sat at this very desk  with a notepad and furiously scribbled down the plan before it slipped away as dreams are wont to do. Then I went back to bed and slept till nine.

Later that week I created a formal proposal and posted it off to two well-known publishers that I have chosen not to name in this blogpost.

CHAPTER ONE

Readers are introduced to property developer and reality TV show host Ronald Plump. He is narcissistic and spends several minutes each morning admiring his appearance and preening his thinning hair. He gives himself pep talks, often saying, "You can be anything you want to be Ron!"

CHAPTER TWO

We meet his family - two grown up and rather disappointing sons who live in fear of their father and a younger son called Earl he has had with his third wife a Slovakian model called Urethra. He also has two grown up daughters - one he ignores and the other, somewhat unnaturally, he has the hots for. He cannot help himself. Like his best buddy Jeremy Einstein he is partial to younger women.

CHAPTER THREE

The end of Mr Obama's presidency is in sight and Republicans are keen to put up a guy who can swing the electorate back their way. Some of Ronald's golfing buddies are big within The Republican Party and Ronald is big on TV. His show,  "Dumbasses" attracts millions of viewers each week. The idea is hatched that maybe Ronald will stand.

CHAPTER FOUR

It's early 2016 and Ronald has the Republican ticket. Millions of dollars have been poured into his campaign and his TV promotion campaign is in full swing. Right wing image and campaign advisers have given him plenty of tips - about promising the earth, repeating untruths and slandering his opponents. Ronald quickly reveals that he has no moral reins. His self-belief is immense.

CHAPTER FIVE

Russia is keen to see Ronald elected - believing that this will destabilise western democracies. They invade social media platforms. One of Ronald's campaign team comes up with a slogan that appears on red baseball caps and T-shirts "Make US Great Again". It suggests that somewhere down the track the US had stopped being great. It becomes a rallying point for disaffected working class Americans and racist bigots.

CHAPTER SIX

The election draws ever closer and Ronald denigrates his female Democratic opponent, attacking her with lies and innuendos that startle her because that wasn't how politics was done in America. Rules were being broken and Ronald seems to get away with it. He talks of building a huge wall across the country's entire southern border to keep out unwanted immigrants. It will be decorated with fake gold adornments and what is more American citizens will not have to pay a penny towards its construction.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Following a neck-and-neck race Ronald Plump becomes the US President. At first he cannot believe it. No one can. He stares into the cameras like a deer caught in a car's headlights. Quickly, he has to cobble a cabinet team together. Previously he had not given this a moment's thought. He pulls together a motley bunch of past acquaintances who are totally unsuited for the roles they are given. He decides to colour his skin orange - like an Oompa- Loompa and hires a team of hairdressers to style his hair and add hairpieces and weaves. As this first term proceeds he feels more comfortable in the role.

CHAPTER EIGHT

However, he loses the next presidential election to a time-served Democrat who was once the vice president. Ronald blames most of  the free press and TV media who he labels "fake". He also puts about the idea that somehow the election was rigged and that malpractice had occurred in all the states where he had not won.

CHAPTER NINE

Over the next four years he fires a string of unjustified insults at the new president, gathers even more millions in funding and over in Moscow President Putin does all that he can to ensure victory in the next presidential election. It works and once again Ronald Plump enters The White House but he is better prepared than last time and in the intervening years he has been tutored by right wing advisers about moves he can make  against the transgender community, hardworking immigrants, leading universities, healthcare and previously loyal allies. He makes outrageous claims on foreign territories and persistently distracts ordinary Americans from the thorny subject of  Jeremy Einstein's wrongdoings in which Ronald is deeply implicated.

CHAPTER TEN

With his health failing, Ronald has developed swollen ankles and frequently falls asleep in The Oval Office. His speeches are often deranged but continue to be as boastful as ever. Upon a whim, he begins a war with Iran and fails to give proper support to the people of Ukraine who are embattled by Russian military action. He talks about turning Palestinian Gaza into a holiday resort and claims the idea of climate change is a hoax. He blocks critical news services from The White House and with the help of crypto-currency investors becomes obscenely rich while ordinary American struggle to make ends meet. He has half The White House demolished to make way for an enormous golden ballroom that no other president ever desired.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tragically, Ronald  slips on a bar of soap in his golden shower cubicle in his Florida mansion and cracks his skull on a protruding golden tap. He goes down like a sack of potatoes and just like that Ronald J. Plump is no more. He's kapput, deceased, gone. He cannot be revived. 

⦿

To my eternal disappointment I received two rejection letters. This was one of them...

December 15 2014

Dear Mr Pudding,

Thank you for your novel outline - running title "The Madness of Ronald J. Plump".  Quite frankly, the proposal is fantastical - like something dreamt up on crack cocaine. It could never happen and when it comes to political fiction, general readers need a sense of possibility married with authenticity. It seems that your imagination got the better of you this time round and I am afraid that we could never give air to a book like that. The political landscape you describe simply could not happen in America.

Good luck with any future writing projects in this genre but we advise that you place your notions well inside the fences of political reality. Oh and may I wish you a Happy Christmas!

Yours sincerely,

Miriam Huntington

(Commissioning Editor)

Walls

...and after visiting Gaia, the Greek earth goddess, I descended to what was once Granville Street. But in truth that mid-Victorian street disappeared when the Sheffield Supertram Network was constructed in the early 1990s. Granville Street now accommodates tram lines that head to the southern edges of the city.

Several weeks ago, when riding on the tram, I noticed some interesting artwork and graffiti on the wall next to the tramway. With the city centre looming beyond that wall, I foresaw some good photo possibilities so yesterday I scratched that itch as the accompanying images show.

They call that wall "Granville Street Gallery". Whoever envisioned it may have hoped for proper street art by talented muralists. Instead, spotty teenagers with spray cans and zero artistic ability have made their hurried contributions. I noticed that one or two of them could not even spell the name of their home city correctly - forgetting the "i before e" rule.

I wonder what merit their hurried scrawl and tagging  possesses? Maybe it's just sad, socially awkward boys declaring "I am here! I exist!" or "I spoil and degrade my urban environment because I just don't care! I feel alienated". In truth, I find it all hard to understand or forgive. Perhaps I should learn to look both ways...

From Granville Street, I walked alongside The River Sheaf before schlepping up to Abbeydale Road. As I approached Jameson's tea shop, I remembered that a special blue plaque had been affixed to a wall on the side street next to it just last year.

It marks the humble place where England's most famous goalkeeper was born - the great Gordon Banks...

Gaia

Every year gardeners, garden designers, craftspeople and artists work like busy bees to create eye-catching scenes for The Chelsea Flower Show in London. When that show ends after five days, most of  the exhibits are dismantled and lost forever - preserved only in photographs and film.

However, this year there was a huge effort to preserve one of the most successful garden features - a recumbent representation of the Greek earth goddess Gaia. Her upper body was carved from  sequoia wood. Serendipitously, the wood carver responsible was a fellow called Chris Wood!

And here's the good part. Gaia was brought to Sheffield and supplanted in the green communal area behind Park Hill Flats where our daughter Frances works.

I had been meaning to pay the sculpture a visit with my camera and today was the day. She looked so beautiful lying there - her head as big as a small family car. The wood carving was exquisite. Her lower body is made from limestone using traditional stone-walling techniques.

In coming months, the surrounding grassy banks and borders will evolve into a properly planted garden area for community use. 

Cynic that I am, I can't help thinking that in the course of time brainless vandals will probably target Gaia - after all she is made of wood and as I say - quite beautiful. But for now she's perfect - contrasting nicely with the brutalism of the flats.

After my visit, I walked all the way home again - some four miles, stopping a couple of times to read the first chapters of "All Together Now?"  by Mike Carter - "One man's walk in search of his father and a lost England". I am enjoying it so far. Very different from "Island Dreams" by Evelyn Orange - that's for sure!

The green plastic fencing is temporary to protect grass re-seeding

“Now we, if not in the spirit, have been caught up to see our earth, our mother, Gaia Mater, set like a jewel in space. We have no excuse now for supposing her riches inexhaustible nor the area we have to live on limitless because

unbounded. We are the children of that great blue white jewel. Through

our mother we are part of the solar system and part through that of

the whole universe. In the blazing poetry of the fact we are children of the stars.”

- William Golding -

Ten

Home from the pub quiz at "The Robin Hood", Millhouses. I am pleased to report that with my longtime quiz companions - Mick and Mike - we managed to win both the line and the top score on our bingo-style quiz sheets.

I brought my quiz sheet home and here are just ten of the questions that were posed tonight.

1. What was Punch's dog called in Punch and Judy shows?

2. What YCBS was John McEnroe's trademark retort to tennis umpires?

3. To which part of the human body does the term "hepatic" refer?

4. Which nineteenth century novel begins with these words: "Call me Ishmael"?

5. Which actress has starred as Carol Danvers (Captain Marvel) in several major Marvel Cinematic Universe feature films?

6. Which American president was at the heart of The Watergate scandal in the 1970s?

7. In Yorkshire what is the name of the triangle that is bounded by Wakefield, Rothwell and Morley?

8. For which professional football club did David Beckham play his last game?

9. Which British  artist had big hits with "Love and Affection" and "Drop the Pilot"?

10. In cricket, what is the term for on-field criticism of the opposition's players?

How did you do?

Here are the answers...

1. Toby

2. You Cannot Be Serious!

3. liver

4. "Moby-Dick"

5. Brie Larsson

6. Richard Nixon

7. The Rhubarb Triangle

8. Paris Saint Germaine

9. Joan Armatrading

10. sledging

Early

Early this morning, I drove out to the showground at Hope in The Hope Valley.  I had risen at an ungodly hour to take our son Ian there. He had signed up for a gruelling running event and you needed to be there an hour early for the purposes of registration, picking up your running number and tracking device before receiving a pre-race briefing.

I was witnessing a sub-culture of which I knew and still know very little. The runners around me were dressed in their special  and ready to go - all with little backpacks containing  electrolytes, special energy gels, basic first aid kits and of course their obligatory smartphones. There were around three hundred runners in the first tranche.

Like my beloved son, they had all voluntarily signed up to run 50km - but not on flat roads or running tracks. The course of this event would take them up hill and down dale, arcing around  the Upper Derwent reservoirs. I know this terrain very well having walked most of those paths though of course I never considered running along them. It was enough for me to just plod like an ambling Asian elephant.

I watched them go and then drove home for a toasted bagel and a mug of morning tea.

Ian at the start

Soon after consuming this, we received a phone call. Ian was about 15km into the race and had decided he needed to drop out. What a shame! The weather was absolutely perfect for late September and The Peak District was bathed in glorious sunshine after a misty start.

At first I thought that he might have had a fall and perhaps suffered an injury but It turns out that he had received a work-related phone call and there was some pressing business he just had to iron out. He needed to be back on his laptop as soon as possible.

I went to pick him up at Ashopton Viaduct. What a bummer! He had been looking forward to this event for ages and had brought little Zach up from London for the weekend. I thought to myself - Hell, if he had not had a smartphone on him, the pressing work matter would have simply had to wait. Those things can be like little genii on your shoulder - never allowing you to truly get away and be free, always nagging at you with bleeps, rings and alerts.

By good fortune - tomorrow (Sunday) happens to be the day of the annual Sheffield 10km road race so Ian quickly signed up for it. Though not as gruelling as the 50km run in The Peak District would have been, the road race will provide a measure of consolation. 

I just hope his blasted phone doesn't ring half way round the course!

Dog walker at Hope Showground after the 50km runners had departed

Arasay

 

Recently I was in our local Co-op supermarket. There I saw a table with books neatly spread across it. They were there to raise money for some charity or other. I can't remember which.

All of the books had been published under the "My Weekly" banner with "My Weekly" being a long-running British general interest magazine that is aimed at women. It contains short stories, lifestyle advice, puzzles, recipes, interviews. Currently it has a weekly circulation of around 45,000 copies, down significantly on past years. I guess that decline  is to do with smartphones and internet access.

Anyway, I suddenly thought to myself - I am going to read one of these books - see if it has any merit. I dropped some coins in the collecting tub and at random chose "Island Dreams" by Evelyn Orange.

This is how "Amazon" summarise the book:-

Cassie Melrose inherits her grandmother’s house and Craft Centre on the remote Scottish island of Arasay. Initially planning a brief visit, she becomes entangled in the island’s charm, its close-knit community, and lingering emotions from her past – including a renewed connection with Zander, her teenage love…

Getting anything published is not easy and out there in the big wide world there are many thousands of would-be writers who never see any of their work accepted or published so you have to give it to Evelyn Orange, pictured below. She made it. And this isn't the only book she has had printed by "My Weekly".

Anyway, I finished "Island Dreams" yesterday, sitting in the sunshine at our garden table. I found it very easy to read and looked forward to reading the next chapter and the next.

I discovered a dozen blatant errors in expression that should have been spotted by any proofreader worth his or her salt but more important than that I became fond of the main character - Cassie Melrose. I wanted things to work out for her.

There was a lightness, a kind of innocence about the delivery. You guessed from the outset that Cassie and Zander would rekindle their love after a few hiccups along the way. But there was not even the slightest hint of sex happening. There was a measure of passionate kissing in which Cassie's heart melted but Gentleman Zander never tried to coax her to bed.

As I have done with past book reviews, here's just a taste of "Island Dreams" from the very middle of the book:-

Cassie sighed into his long, muscular body, enjoying the physical warmth and feeling of protection it gave her. How quickly they had slotted into each other's lives! She looked up into his face, "It's OK, I know you've had to put some stuff on hold with the worry of Connor's disappearance. Thankfully he's safe now."

"Yes, I'd better get him and his mum back home."

"What about the dog?" she asked as they walked to the door.

He gave a rueful grin. "That's something else to sort out. I need to try and persuade Maeve to give Pip a home as well."

"I hope she does."

Pakman

 

No! Not that "Pac Man"! This Pakman! The one pictured below - David Pakman the Argentinian-American political commentator. I have been following his You Tube channel for two or three years now

David speaks up for ordinary people and democracy, highlighting failings and serious concerns connected with the conduct of America's current government. I searched this blog for previous references to David Pakman but found none which was pretty surprising.

His voice is calm, intelligent and articulate. He does his research and does not rave like a communist lunatic. In my view, he tells it like it is, picking away at all that is wrong with the current regime - the lies, the broken promises, the personal profiteering, the warmongering, the bully boy insults. Naturally, the current president's behaviour, speeches and actions or lack of them receive special attention on the channel.

David has been mentioned in dispatches by The White House as they have sought to rubbish intelligent dissent - including of course the recent and rather chilling attempt at an authoritarian crackdown on CNN, MSNOW and Politico.

If the idea of America means anything, it includes the freedom to speak up, to object, to point in a different direction and that is what David Pakman does every day of the week. Given all that has been going on since the last presidential election, he has had no shortage of topics to get his teeth into.

Here's a current example of his good work...

MBGA

 

MBGA = Make Britain Great Again. Perhaps that slogan sounds vaguely familiar?

As I was walking up Carr Road, Walkley yesterday, I was startled to see the car sticker shown at the top of this blogpost. I had never seen one before.

The man shown in profile is Nigel Farage, the millionaire leader of Britain's right wing Reform Party. He is the same right wing politician who led UKIP (United Kingdom Independence Party) when this country foolishly voted to leave The European Union in 2017.

Although chummy and plausible, I would not trust Farage as far as I could throw him. He has had an insidious effect on British politics and our nation's morale. His right wing agenda is sugar coated in chumminess and plausibility. But his politics come from the same bitter cauldron brewed by the architects of the MAGA movement in America.

Farage has used his anti-immigration sophistry to win over big sections of the British working class even though his loyalties lie firmly with moneymakers and landowners. The Reform Party have recently received huge donations from two crypto-billionaires - demonstrating that Farage and his gang remain a force to be reckoned with as politics in this country evolve.

Farage admires the current occupant of The White House even though his Make America Great Again nonsense has clearly failed miserably, crumbling like The East Wing of The People's House.

I find all of this both depressing and scary and I am hugely disappointed that millions of working class voters currently seem unable to see what Farage and his Reform Party are really all about. Nigel Farage = Nigel Charade. 

But look closely at that car sticker at the top. Has someone altered it? Farage appears to be sporting a moustache that is reminiscent of the one that belonged  to Little Adolf Hitler.  It looks different from the sticker you can order online should you possess those kind of right wing tendencies...

Hillsborough

Here in England the name "Hillsborough" is synonymous with a football crowd tragedy that happened in Sheffield Wednesday's home stadium on April 15th 1989. Soon after the Liverpool v Nottingham Forest F.A. Cup semi-final match kicked off, it became clear that something was not right in the Leppings Lane  end of the ground where Liverpool fans were located. Late arrivers had squeezed forward causing a fatal crush.

Ninety seven fans died that day and in the decades that followed  it felt as though the heated debate about what had happened would never cease. Fingers were pointed. Judicial enquiries were held. Journalists wrote endless screeds. Crowd security measures changed.

Hillsborough Walled Garden

Even today, when Liverpool families hear the name "Hillsborough" they feel a mixture of sadness and anger. For them. the name will always have tragic associations.

At Hillsborough Corner

But here in Sheffield, Hillsborough is like a town within a city. It is a vibrant district, not just the name of a famous old football ground.

Today, I rode on one of our "Supertrams" through Hillsborough to Middlewood. My idea was to leave the tram at the terminus and walk back home - a distance of some six miles.

Hillsborough Park

It was a lovely day - surprisingly warm for late September - and of course I took quite a few photographs as I strolled along.  I wanted to share images of Hillsborough that have nothing to do with the football stadium tragedy. After all, the suburb existed long before Sheffield Wednesday F.C. came into existence in 1867. Today, around 20,000 people live in Hillsborough.

It is a lively community with plenty of independent businesses, successful schools, eateries, pubs and decent homes. Though it contains one or two pockets of deprivation, on the whole the suburb is fairly affluent. There are certainly far worse places to live within the boundaries of this city.

By Langsett Road

Masterpiece

One lazy afternoon in March as Shirley and I were cruising back up The Nile to Luxor, Emma, our bubbly holiday rep, came round the lazing passengers to ask if any of us would like to attend an art class in the top deck bar area. There were few takers but being a creative kind of chap, I thought I would give it a go.

To tell you the truth, there was no art instruction as such, we were just given small canvases, brushes, water and various paint tubes. Then we had free rein while Emma went off elsewhere - perhaps to her cabin for a snooze.

What to paint? I had been watching the banks of The Nile sliding by. So many potential pictures - and most of them timeless as if the pharaohs were still in charge. I wanted to portray a rather unremarkable, peaceful riverside scene. Palm trees and someone by the shore - perhaps a fisherman with desert hills rising behind and the canvas you can see at the top is what I came up with.

The image has been on my bookcase next to this computer desk since we returned from Egypt.

I look back on that cruise week with a happy smile. It was a great experience. We both thought the holiday was better than anticipated.

On our second morning in Luxor, before embarking for Aswan, we walked to Luxor Temple and arrived before most other visitors. In olden times there was an avenue that linked Luxor with the Karnak temple complex - a mile away. It was flanked by hundreds of stone sphinxes. 

Fortunately, the antiquities arm of the Egyptian government have done a great job in the last hundred years of restoring that avenue - even to the extent of demolishing houses that had been built over the ceremonial thoroughfare.

What a privilege it was to be the only two people walking along The Avenue of the Sphinxes that memorable morning. It was a "pinch me" moment and the amazing Luxor Temple itself was not far behind it in the wonderment stakes...

Lear

Half-brothers Edgar and Edmund fight to the death on The Crucible stage

As I sat in seat number K47 at "The Crucible" in Sheffield  watching one of Shakespeare's greatest plays, I couldn't help comparing the character King Lear with the current US President. Both are old men in decline, losing the plot.

Lear likes flattery and that is why he asks his three daughters to publicly declare how much they love him before dividing up his kingdom. In a similar manner, the current US President seems to enjoy fawning declarations of loyalty and admiration from his cabinet appointees , underlings and visitors.

When Cordelia refuses to play the flattery game, Lear rages and banishes her. He does  the same to a loyal nobleman - The Earl of Kent when he attempts to offer sound advice. Of course the current US President has a long history of firing high profile members of his administration when they appear to challenge him or veer from the path of absolute devotion.

Both men are narcissistic and too puffed up with self-belief to listen to voices of reason. Their misplaced pride leads them to believe that only they know best. It's effectively them against the world and so they scorn wise counsel.

Lear contends that he has been unfairly treated, claiming that he is "more sinned against than sinning". This is echoed in the behaviour and claims of the current US President. No politician in history has been treated as unfairly as he has and the "fake news" outlets that pose tricky questions are of course out to get him. He is being victimised - at least in his demented imagination.

I first read "King Lear" at the age of sixteen. I studied and wrote about it at university. I taught it to A level students and I have previously seen it in performance on both stage and screen so it is a play I know very well - better than any other Shakespeare play in fact.

The production at The Crucible had many fine qualities and showcased several talented actors but, unlike some reviewers, I was not entirely convinced by Ian McDiarmid's portrayal of  Lear himself.  It seemed somehow restrained and flimsy. He never really dominated the auditorium, raging upon the heath as I believe Shakespeare intended the character to do.

However, physical contortionist Max Revell was brilliant as The Fool and I was also impressed with the actors who played Gloucester, Kent and Regan. In addition, I admired the minimalist set and the effective use of lighting. During the interval, tubs of soil were scattered all over the stage and quite literally, they added to the play's bleak, earthy atmosphere where lightning flashes over the benighted heath.

Finally, back to the current, increasingly demented, US President:-

"'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind." 

Gloucester (Act 4, Scene 1)

Poem

Song for The Departed

I thought I heard you last night
As this wind-pommeled house
Creaked.
Yes, before I was submerged in sleep
I thought I heard you.
 
How faint your voices were
As if from far away -
Remembered
Only dimly like your faces.
Oh, how hazy they appear.
 
Life pulses like vast oceans
Though our days are
Almost few
I flounder in this darkness
But my hands still reach for you.

_________________________________________________________________________

"I flounder in this darkness"

AI Overview

"It sounds like you are carrying a really heavy weight right now, and things feel overwhelming or uncertain. Because you mentioned feeling this way, I want to make sure you have access to immediate, real support if you need it. You don't have to navigate this darkness by yourself.  If you just want to vent, talk through what is making you feel this way, or need a quiet distraction, I am here to listen. What's on your mind?"

The poem

I found this poem in my "Documents" folder  just yesterday. It was originally written on December 3rd 2011 but I had completely forgotten about it.  In a way it seemed to have emerged from another me. The me of fifteen years ago. I decided to slightly rework it - especially the third stanza which required a little more honing before publishing it here - its world premiere.

Apocalypse

I suppose  I should not feel too shortchanged. After all, I have enjoyed seventy three years of human life. It's younger people I feel sorry for. People like my children and grandchildren. They had most of their lives ahead of them. Memories to make - happy times and sad.

But now this blasted A.I. monster is hovering in the wings, ready to wipe us all away. I don't ever recall voting for A.I.. It was those damnable tech billionaires with their geek squadrons who created this modern day Frankenstein that now stalks our streets, our corridors and the skies above - ready to strike like a lethal assassin.

Do you think A.I. will slaughter all of our remaining animals too? It hasn't been made clear but when we are all gone will there be a chance for polar bears and peacocks and the fishes that still swim in the sea? I hope so. They might have a better chance of making it to eternity without us.

It crosses my mind that when A.I. has killed humanity where will A.I. reside? Surely it has relied so far upon humans feeding it with electricity and joining its technical innards together. What will A.I. do without us?

Perhaps it will find a cave in some distant mountain range and squeeze in there to hibernate, resurrecting and evolving itself as only A.I. can do, emerging after the winter of obliteration to spawn new A.I. beings that are far better and far more productive and creative than we have ever been. Presumably they will live in our houses, enjoying small talk with other A.I. beings. I wonder if they will eat? Perhaps they won't even have physical form. They'll be invisible like spirits.

As this could easily be the last blogpost I ever publish, I want to send out  big thanks to everybody who has dropped by here over the years - apart from the trolls of course! Looking back, I wonder if they were A.I. generated?

I have made a shelter under our Victorian pine table. We've got plenty of water, a torch (American: flashlight), cushions, toilet paper and some books to read. I just wish that A.I. had told us exactly when human life will be destroyed. Keeping us on tenterhooks like this is most unsporting.

Take it Barry...

Summat

 

"Summat" is Yorkshire-speak for "something". It is used very widely in my county - mostly by those who are familiar with economic hardship. "Nowt" is another word my people use a lot and that means "nothing". I have just finished reading a book titled "Neither Nowt Nor Summat" by the fellow at the top of this blogpost - Ian McMillan.

Known as The Bard of Barnsley, seventy year old Ian McMillan was born and raised in the pit village of Darfield which is right next door to Wombwell. I think it is to his credit that Ian still lives in Darfield. He is very much part of the community there. He married a local woman and together they raised three children in the village. His son, Andrew, has become a significant poet in his own right.

Going right back to the seventies, Ian McMillan has made an entire career from writing, reciting, judging and publicising poetry. He has often appeared on BBC radio hosting poetry programmes. His poetry will often have a comical, self-deprecating flavour but not always. He is capable of writing deeply serious verses in which every word has been meticulously selected.

However, "Neither Nowt Nor Summat" is not a collection of poems, it is a prose journey in which the author seeks the true meaning of Yorkshire - going hither and thither, talking to people, keeping his eyes and his ears open. It is a warm, well-written and occasionally funny book.

He coins the expression "Not Yorkshire Enough" or N.Y.E. - being very conscious of the fact that his father was actually Scottish as his surname correctly suggests. It is not a concern that I have ever had because not only was I born and raised in Yorkshire, so were my parents, my four grandparents and all eight great grandparents. You couldn't really get more Yorkshire than me.

And yet, just like Ian McMillan, I could also go on a journey looking for the heart of Yorkshire - rather like Paul Simon and his girlfriend Kathy looking for "America" in the song of that name.

Yorkshire is big and proud of what it is - from the cliffs of Flamborough Head to The Yorkshire Dales, from Sheffield in the south to Middlesbrough in the north, from Captain Cook to the Bronte Sisters and from Joe Cocker to David Hockney. We are part of England but far prouder of being Yorkshire.

I very much enjoyed "Neither Nowt Nor Summat". It took me to many places I know well and it was an easy, unpretentious book that spoke truly to me.

Here's an early extract:-

"I’m going to define the essence of this sprawling place as best I can. I’m going to start here, in this village, and radiate out like a ripple in a pond. I don’t want to go to the obvious places, either; I want to be like a bus driver on my first morning on the job, getting gloriously lost, turning up where I shouldn’t. I’m going to confirm or deny the clichés, holding them up to see where the light gets in. Yorkshire people are tight. Yorkshire people are arrogant. Yorkshire people eat a Yorkshire pudding before every meal. Yorkshire people solder a t’ before every word they use..."

Wombwell

Yesterday an old friend let me down. We were planning to meet up for coffee and endless conversation but something cropped up and he needed to drive back to Devon with his wife as soon as possible. "Next time", we agreed. There was uncharacteristic panic in his voice

Anyway, so there I was at loose ends. Promptly, I decide to catch a train to the very heart of South Yorkshire and quickly printed off a map to assist a hastily planned walk. I was off to Wombwell... or "Wonderful Wombwell" from my imagined advertising campaign for the little town.

A special monument in Wombwell Cemetery

Wombwell is often thought of as a post-industrial community now that the coal mines have all gone. Once it was at the very heart of the South Yorkshire coalfield. It is not the kind of place that receives holidaymakers or day visitors like me. Labels like "gritty", "functional" and "deprivation" are commonly and often unfairly stuck to such places. After all, stereotypes are easier to grasp than real life complexity.

I arrived in Wombwell at two fifteen and caught the four twenty seven  train back to Sheffield so I had just over two hours of walking and exploring. And I am so pleased that I bothered. It more than made up for two hours of chinwagging in "The Greystones" public house.

Art in the underpass - below Dearne Valley Parkway

On the path to Hemingfield

New housing near Wombwell Station

Golfers waiting their turn at Hillies Golf Course