Finished

No. This blog is not finished and neither is its modest author. "Finished" refers to my reading of "John & Paul - A Love Story in Songs" by Ian Leslie.

I would not say that I was ever a rabid Beatles fan but the cultural significance of The Beatles phenomenon impacted on all who grew up in the three decades that followed World War II. You cannot deny that. Their very presence was symbolic of a changing world and many of their songs feature in our imaginary soundtrack for the nineteen sixties and seventies...

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain,

Don't carry the world upon your shoulders.

For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool

By making his world a little colder.

Ian Leslie is to be commended for crafting this intelligent and well-researched book. Though it honours the two leaders of The Beatles, it is never fawning nor sycophantic. He examines the evidence and presents a very believable thesis - that John and Paul's relationship was something akin to love.

That special bond had its ups and downs, its tears and its laughter but at the heart of it all was a unique chemistry that neither of them could ever resist even when circumstances and other people got in their way. They would always be the music-obsessed Liverpool lads who first met at the Woolton parish church garden party on July 7th, 1957.

Each chapter of the book focuses on a different song. I was very familiar with most of the songs but after the band's break up happened in 1970, I kind of lost touch with their music preferring singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, Donovan, Melanie Safka and the great Bob Dylan. So I had to use Google to search up several of the songs that Ian Leslie bases his final chapters upon.

Here are two extracts to give you a flavour of what I thought was a most enjoyable and insightful treatise:-

“In October, Yoko and John celebrated John's thirty-first birthday with friends, including Ringo, in a hotel room in Syracuse, New York, where Yoko had an exhibition. There is a tape of a rowdy singalong, led by John on an out-of-tune guitar. It includes a slightly drunk and maudlin rendition of 'Yesterday'. John gets the words wrong (‘now it looks as though I've lost my way'), and replaces ‘she’ with ‘he’: why he had to go, I don't know, he wouldn't say...”

&

“At one point in his 1981 conversation with Hunter Davies, McCartney said rather miserably, "I realise now we never got to the bottom of each other's souls." In the end, McCartney had to settle for not knowing, and not understanding. So do we all. What we can say for sure is that they loved each other, that through music they found a way to share this love with everyone in the world, and that in doing so they made the world an immeasurably better place. Because it was John; because it was Paul.”

And I feel sure that if The Beatles ever meant anything to you, you would also appreciate "John & Paul." You will learn a lot of things you never knew before.

Quotations

 

Most people value astute or pithy quotations that seem to capture fundamental truths in just a few words. I see quotations cropping up a lot in Blogworld where blog owners or commenters often strive to tell it like it is. Quotations can help - like handles to grip on to when riding on a bus.

When I was a student at The University of Stirling in Scotland (1973-1977) I honed my academic papers and essays with care and commitment. I sought the right words and backed up my arguments with textual references and points sifted from other writers. My courses were chiefly in English Literature and Education. I took great pride in my work.

Perhaps it was in my second year (American: sophomore) that I fell into the habit of beginning each academic essay with an epigraph - a quotation that somehow captured the essence of the writing that was to follow, setting the tone. You often see epigraphs where books or chapters of books begin and I guess I thought to myself - why can't I do that? I enjoyed the slightly electric juxtaposition.

Some of my epigraphs emerged from previous reading but I found others in  the book pictured at the top of this blogpost. "The Quotation Dictionary" was one of my constant companions through university but for the last four decades it has mostly just filled shelf space in our house, its pages never more turned. When I opened it today, I half expected book worms to wriggle out.

But they didn't. However, I noticed that the previously well-thumbed pages have yellowed slightly with age. In spite of that, the truth, insight and wisdom that most of those quotations contain has not withered. It's still there. A useful source of quiet reflection. Keyholes that look in on the very meaning of life.

"The Quotation Dictionary" was first compiled by Robin Hyman  and printed in New York by Collier Books in 1962. My edition is from 1967 and it was given to me by my late American friend Richard when we were volunteer teachers on the faraway island of Rotuma (1972-73). He had noticed how I often flicked through the book so he said I could have it.

I thought it would be an interesting exercise to pull out five quotations that might appositely be applied to America's forty seventh president. What do you think? 

O, it is excellent

To have a giant's strength! But it is tyrranous 

To use it like a giant.

- WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE -

Isabella in "Measure for Measure" (Act II scene ii)

He that would govern others, first should be

The master of himself.

- PHILIP MASSINGER -

in "The Bondman" (Act I scene iii)

Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it.

- WILLIAM PITT Senior -

Speech in The House of Lords, Jan 9th 1770

Hypocrisy is the homage paid by vice to virtue.

- DUC DE LAROCHEFOUCAULD -

in "Les Maximes" (17th century)

Among all the diseases of the mind there is not one more

epidemical or more pernicious than the love of flattery.

- SIR RICHARD STEELE -

in "The Spectator" No. 238 (September 1711)

Peacefulness

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fulwood's elegant war memorial

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

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

In the woods on Greystones Cliffe, approaching Hangingwater Road

Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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

That remark about the sunglasses made me chuckle.

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

Well done Harry!

Hughes

 

Ted Hughes (1930-1998)

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

Hughes's birthplace in Mytholmroyd

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

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

Skeleton

 

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

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

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

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

24/10/81

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

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

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

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

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

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

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jettisoned

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autumn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Todd

 

A week ago, I wandered through the charming little Lincolnshire village of Little Ponton. In such places, the most interesting and certainly the most historical building is likely to be the parish church. No wonder then that in my countless country rambles I have taken very many pictures of country churches.

The church in Little Ponton is dedicated St Guthlac of Crowland who was a hermit and spiritual example to others in the early eighth century. Never before had I visited a church dedicated to Guthlac and in fact I have just learnt that there are only nine parish churches in England that bear his name. None are in Yorkshire or Derbyshire. 

The photograph directly above was taken last week - with the gates of the churchyard invitingly open. I popped the picture into Microsoft Image Creator - a popular AI facility and requested a version in "oil paint" and the picture that emerged is the one shown at the top of this blogpost.

As I sat on the only churchyard bench there was, I noticed a cluster of family graves close by. I read them and realised that the family's patiarch - Richard Andrew Palethorpe Todd had been predeceased by three of his four sons with two of them committing suicide. Their gravestones were also in the cluster. I guessed there was a story there but doubted that I would ever know it.

I was about to carry on with my day-long walk when I noticed an inscription on the central gravestone  - "Exit dashing young blade". It seemed an odd thing to put on a ninety year old man's grave. By the way, I did not take the picture below. I found it courtesy of Google Images.

Back home when researching the church, I discovered that Richard Palethorpe-Todd was none other than Richard Todd - a significant film star of the 1950s. In fact, he was Ian Fleming's first choice to play James Bond in the very first 007 film - "Dr No" (1962). Famously, that role went to Sean Connery instead.

Richard Todd was friends with both Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher both of whom he hosted at The Old Rectory in Little Ponton.

He was Oscar-nominated in 1949 and in 1955 he starred as Guy Gibson in "The Dam Busters". Interestingly, he willingly played his part in World War II and was one of the first British* soldiers to parachute into Normandy on D-Day. A hero on screen and off it it seems. "Dashing young blade" was a term fondly applied to him by The Queen Mother.

* - He was born in Dublin, Ireland

Crassness

Woke, liberal leftie, communist, intelligent, anti-racist, trans-loving, book reading people like me have been appalled by the current President of The United States of America since he first stepped across the threshold of The White House on January 17th 2017. When you think he simply cannot go any lower, he goes lower.

His crassness is now legendary and many of his diehard supporters accept it with knowing smiles. Last week, the BBC's North America correspondent interviewed typical Republican supporters in Iowa. One of them, the wife of a farmer, said "We knew he was no choirboy!" - as if to say, we can forgive him his human failings and moral stumbles as long as he is getting on with the job of being president.

I think the entire connected world knows about the tragedy that occurred in The Yorkshire Wildlife Park on October 10th. A young man with a long history of mental illness scaled two fences to enter the tigers' compound. And there, very sadly, he died. By the way, that young man had a name and family members who loved him. His name was William Chapman. He was twenty four years old.

There was some video footage of the incident. In their heartbreak, William's family asked people not to share that video. But what did the forty seventh American president do? Why, he shared that video on his self-congratulatory Truth Social website. The video was freshly captioned, "Don't mess with Nature!"

I found that new caption worthy of some extra head-shaking. After all, this is a nitwit who has burnt up countless gallons of aviation fuel just to fly down to his gaudy Florida mansion for long golfing weekends. Isn't that messing with Nature? And what about his "Drill Baby Drill!" mantra? What kind of attitude does that show towards Nature? The hypocrisy is breathtaking but of course perfectly in character.

A couple of days later, giving not a moment of thought to William Chapman's memory or his grieving loved ones, The President of Crassness posted an AI video of himself chasing a tiger and wrestling with it. Ha-ha! Very funny you unkind and tangerine felon!

It was disgusting but arguably not as disgusting as the way he has sided with Putin during his cruel war upon Ukraine, instead of backing Volodymyr Zelenskyy to the hilt. President Zelenskyy is a proper leader,  and not a fake president like the one who currently lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW in Washington D.C.. 

Let's hope that American voters punish him severely in the mid-term elections. If you happen to be American and you are reading this post, please remember to do your bit for sanity, reason and a better future and simply VOTE! The world will be watching.

Quiztime

 

This is a "pot luck" quiz for once. No theme. Just ten typical general knowledge questions. I am not even providing multiple choice answers this time. You are on your own mate! Even so, I wish you good luck! Answers will be provided in the comments section but please - no peeping until you have finished!

⦿

1) Name one of the two original "seven wonders of the world" that were in Egypt.

2) What is the capital of Kenya?

3) Who was the second president of the United States of America?

4) Who wrote "The Handmaid's Tale"?

5) A baby cat is a kitten but what is a baby  swan called?

6) What is the main unit of currency in Sweden?

7) In terms of land area what is the biggest Australian state?

8) Which British group had hits with "Get It On", "Metal Guru" and "I Love to Boogie"?

9) Who played Odysseus in this year's blockbuster film version of "The Odyssey"?

10) What is 0℃ on the Fahrenheit scale?

How did you do?

Portraits

As a roving amateur photographer, it's very tricky to get portraits of strangers. Whenever I do happen to manage it, I am most grateful. Mostly I have to stick to scenery and the physical environment around me but - if the truth be known - I would love to have gathered hundreds more pictures of people. And I am talking about willing strangers - not secretly snapped pictures of unaware subjects.

I know I am not alone in being fascinated by faces - reading what's behind the eyes, trying to see into someone else's otherness. Throughout my life, I have doodled and my doodles are almost exclusively of faces. Yes, I have created thousands of faces with pens and pencils but to acquire photos of faces sometimes seems taboo.

Anyway, today Phoebe was keen for me to show her a pictures of me stroking a tiger. This happened in northern Thailand in April 2011 but I don't think Phoebe believed me.

With a little scrolling through my archives I was able to locate the picture quite easily. She was duly impressed.

It was almost time for her to go home. After she had gone, I flicked through other images I had gathered in Thailand around the same time. I was reminded of a little side trip I took to a kind of rural show village occupied by members of the Karen or Kayan hill tribe.

These people have had a long tradition connected with neck rings. Some of their women still wear heavy brass rings that push down the collarbone and rib cage to create an elongated neck look. As a nominated girl advances through her adolescence, more rings are gradually added.

The practice is quite abhorrent in my view. It is difficult to imagine the discomfort and pain that the long-necked Karen women must endure and you wonder - how do they sleep at night?

And yet my portrait at the top of this blogpost seems to show a dignified, calm and healthy young woman who is getting on with life in spite of the odd cultural tradition that has arguably blighted her life. Below, a younger Karen girl near the start of her neck ring journey...

Mitchelstown

In the summer of 2011, a year after my brother Paul had died, I went back to Ireland to see the family over there. I stayed in County Clare for a few  days before heading down to Cork, staying over night in a B&B in Tipperary.

On the way down south, I stopped to take perhaps fifty pictures in geographical squares that had not been bagged either by me or any other Geograph contributor. One stop I made was in the main square  of Mitchelstown - a small town in  northern County Cork.

It was a case of stopping, taking a couple of pictures and jumping back in the hire car.  I didn't even know who the statuesque fellow was on the plinth. It turns out that he was John Mandeville (1849-1888). In 1887, he led an uprising of tenant farmers in the town - protesting about increased rents and evictions.

Three men were killed by police that day in what is sometimes known as "The Mitcheltown Massacre". For his part in the unrest, John Mandeville was arrested, tried and imprisoned. The harsh treatment he received in Cork City Gaol had a truly awful effect upon his health and he died at home the following year at the age of just thirty nine.

I uploaded the statue picture on to the Geograph website and thought little more about it or Mitchelstown until early this year when - out of the blue - I received a message from a retired Mitchelstown resident called Anne Griffin.

Anne is a leading light in the town's active history group and she was co-ordinating the creation and production of a 250 page book called "Mitchelstown Remembered". She had found my statue picture on the internet and wanted to know if she could use it as the cover picture for the book. Of course I agreed and then she asked how much money I wanted for using my image. I said that I wanted nothing  but I would love to receive a copy of the book when it came out.

She agreed to that and this morning the book duly arrived. I am chuffed to bits. It is not the best picture I have ever taken by far but now I know who the statue represents I feel extra proud about my contribution.

In the course of time I will read the book and send my thoughts about it to Anne Griffin whose energy and "can do" spirit must have made the book happen. Very kindly, Anne also sent me this "thank you" card which was posted on my birthday. If you enlarge it, you may be able to read it better.

Epitaph

 

What is life, 'tis all a vapour

Tho' long on earth we both did stay

Our time was wasted like a taper

Fleeting soon it died away.

Two hundred years ago, Thomas Harris and his wife Elizabeth were buried in Old Somerby churchyard. They both died in the 1820s having reached great ages for their time. Thomas was 82 and Elizabeth was 79. I am sure that their skilfully carved slate gravestone once stood upright but nowadays it lies horizontal in the grass. Possibly a modern health and safety matter.

But what really caught my eye about their gravestone was the epitaph at the bottom. It seems devoid of religious content or any ambition to achieve an after-life state of being. It could have almost been written by the existentialist playwright - Samuel Beckett. A world without a benign "God" watching over them like a shepherd and maybe a pointless world too.

The four lines do not make great poetry. They seem rather amateurish to me  but the meaning is clear. You can sense the despair and it's rather sad that anyone should reach old age and feel so unfulfilled - as if it had all been like a cheap candle burning down.

On a lighter note, it put me in mind of what kind of epitaph I will have on the base of my memorial statue in Endcliffe Park and I have come up with this...

The great Yorkshire Pudding is resting here

He wasted his life on blogging and beer

He could have been someone but chose not to be

And stayed home instead with a nice cup of tea.

Yep, so that's my epitaph. It saves my family a job in what will certainly be a grief-stricken period for them. Why not take a leaf out of my book and write your epitaph too? You can share it in the comments below.  Alternatively, if you need help, I can knock one up carefully craft one for you for a mere fifty guineas! Money up front please.

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...