Esk

The old church in Esk   ©Chris Attrell

In Canada, The Yellowhead Highway runs from Winnipeg, Manitoba to Graham Island off the coast of British Columbia. Please note that that island is not named after Mr Graham Edwards who resides on The Isle of Lewis which is not named after the F1 driver Lewis Hamilton.

The Yellowhead Highway runs for 1800 miles and right across the province of Saskatchewan through Saskatoon and on to Yorkton. Between those places there are numerous little settlements close to that vital connecting road including Elfros, Mozart, Wynard, Kandahar, Dafoe and Jansen. Between Jansen and Lanigan you will find what remains of the village of Esk.

Esk was never a big place but it grew into a farming community as the great prairie lands of North America were opened up and made profitable. At first there were small, labour-intensive farms where mechanisation was limited and horses, oxen and mules were still used by farmers. 

This was where Mr Keith Kline was born in October 1939. He is a fellow blogger known to most of us as Red and he is the author of "Hiawatha House" which has been running for sixteen years. Red now lives in Red Deer, Alberta with his Yorkshire-born wife, Jean but he grew up miles from anywhere in Esk where he attended the local school with a handful of other farming children.

To celebrate Red's recent 85th birthday, I thought I would use Google Streetview to see how Esk looks these days but I am afraid that those Google camera cars have so far avoided Esk. The best I can do is show you The Yellowhead Highway at the point where it passes by Esk...

Just five miles along the road heading west you come to a bigger settlement called Lanigan which I am sure that Red was familiar with in his early years. I asked Google Streetview to take me there. On Main Street, Wong's Chinese Restaurant is still operational, serving "Canadian" food alongside  the Chinese fayre. What is "Canadian" food I wonder? 

Lanigan is a town of only 1400 people but it has its own high school - no doubt serving other settlements in the region and bussing many children in...

Travelling three or four miles east of Esk, you come to a pretty big glacial moraine lake - Big Quill Lake which is seventeen miles long and eleven miles across. We don't have any lakes in England to compare with that. This Google view may give you a sense of its size. It's like an inland sea!

And so here's that Saskatchewan farmboy himself with his birthday cupcake, having made it to 85 just last month. Belated Birthday Greetings Red and I hope you liked this Esk-related blogpost.

East

All Saints Church, Greetwell

The empty gate house at Greetwell

I was down at our local bus stop at 8.45 this morning and as luck would have it a no.88 appeared straight away. We sped into the city centre in the bus lane and I was down at the railway station at 9.15, ready to catch the 9.39 train to Lincoln.

Lincoln is 55 miles east of Sheffield and by car without traffic hold ups you can complete the journey in  more or less the same time that the train takes. But I didn't want the driving today. It was nice to sit in a train carriage reading my book.

Once in Lincoln, I set off eastward along the north bank of The River Witham. Soon I was out in the countryside on what was a bright morning as the weather people had promised. I was heading for Fiskerton and then on to Cherry Willingham. but I made a detour at Greetwell in order to take a few pictures of All Saints Church which dates back to at least the eleventh century. 

By the time I got to Phoenix Fiskerton, time was running out on me. I needed to march to Cherry Willingham like a soldier if I was going to catch the 3pm bus back into Lincoln as planned. If I missed it, I would have an hour to wait and I then would miss the 16.17 train back to Sheffield. 

But I made it and in Lincoln I treated myself to a small burger meal with a latte at "Wendy's".  The images above and below this writing were  taken today.

St Clement Church in Fiskerton is Grade I listed

Road sign in Fiskerton

Pilings, like Grecian columns, beneath the A15 roadway

Magnificent Lincoln Cathedral still looks 

over the surrounding landscape. Once the

tallest building in the world.

Park

In all my years living in Sheffield, I have rarely visited Norfolk Park - to the south east of the city but I went there again today. Above, I am  pretty pleased with that autumnal photograph of the gatehouse at the Granville Road entrance.

It is a sprawling park of some seventy acres with woodland and open spaces. It once belonged to the Dukes of Norfolk and was part of extensive hunting grounds. Eventually, in 1910, the entire area was given to the people of Sheffield by the then Duke of Norfolk though one should not necessarily think of this as an act of generous munificence. It was more complicated than that.

Below, the arched stone doorway remains but the building it once accessed is gone. It was a tearoom and pavilion. The inscription above the doorway commemorates the official transfer of the parkland into public ownership.

On a park noticeboard, someone had affixed this sticker. It refers to a subject that is close to my heart. Badgers have been here on the island of Britain for at least half a million years and yet in the last two decades they have become something of a scourge in the eyes of certain onlookers. Badgers are blamed for spreading tuberculosis in cattle even though the evidence for this is very shaky indeed. 

The last government came up with a culling scheme that involved hiring marksmen to shoot badgers. The whole process has been deliberately shrouded in mystery but we know that thousands of badgers have been killed - or perhaps a better word would indeed be "murdered"...

In Norfolk Park, there were many fallen leaves blown into piles, all higgledy-piggledy making interesting  natural collages even though most of them have recently lain under piles of snow:-

As near as dammit, I walked the entire circumference of the park. American grey squirrels darted about and an old woman was taking her two old dogs for a slow walk even though her body was bent and she needed the assistance of two crutches. She was talking to herself and to her dogs quite loudly as I overtook her. I wondered what would happen if she fell over for I very much doubt that she could have got herself up again. Below,  a lone human was walking under the trees... 

From several locations in Norfolk Park you get  clear views of the city centre and St Paul's Tower, an apartment block which is the tallest building in Sheffield...

Dumbass

Americans have coined some pretty handy words, including "dumbass". I must admit that I was a "dumbass" yesterday night.

At nine o'clock, I jumped in Clint's South Korean cockpit and headed off to our nearest "Lidl" store. Ever since The Plague disrupted our lives, I have tended to do our main supermarket shopping late on when I can always get parked in one of my favourite spaces and there's hardly anybody else shopping.

Semi-skimmed milk, Cavendish bananas, fun-size apples, spreadable butter, carrots, a stalk of Brussels sprouts, a joint of "grass fed" roasting beef, Greek yoghurts, cosy winter socks for little girls, shower cream, smoked bacon, a bottle of Ukrainian white wine, Madagascar vanilla custard, sourdough crumpets, onions, horseradish sauce and chicken breasts...plus a few other items.

I plonked all of these things on the conveyor belt, plumped up my shopping bags in the trolley and the job was soon done. The young man at the checkout said, "That will be £71.54 please". Then your correspondent went to his pocket to pull out his wallet - but no wallet! What a dumbass! I had left it on the windowsill at home.

It was too late to drive back to our suburban mansion as the  store would be closing in ten minutes. Patiently, the young man said that my trolley could be kept in the chiller in the store room and I could pick up my stuff on Sunday morning when "Lidl" reopened. He did not exclaim, "You are a dumbass!" but he may have been thinking that. 

The "retrieve shopping" mission was successfully completed this morning and before too long Dumbass will begin preparing our Sunday dinner - that's if I can remember how to turn on the oven.

I freely admit that I have done plenty of "dumbass" things in the past, including once pouring diet cola on my fish and chips, thinking that I had just grabbed the vinegar bottle. As a small girl, Frances regularly reminded me of this act of blatant stupidity, saying, "You poured coke on your chips!" as though I had done something so unthinkable that it needed repeating over and over.

Have you ever been a "dumbass"? Perhaps you are perfect and have never done a "dumbass" thing in your entire life.

Beer

"The Tan Hill Inn" - England's highest pub

In my adult life, I have drunk countless gallons of beer - by volume,  the equivalent of an Olympic swimming pool. Beer has been a good friend to me - a faithful companion in good times and bad. Foaming pints have been sunk in pubs from New Zealand to New York and from Lands End to John O'Groats

I could always leave spirits alone. In our little drinks cabinet, I have two unopened bottles of whisky (Scottish) and two of whiskey (Irish). They have been there for a decade or more. Wine and cider are okay but beer was always my best buddy.

During the time of The Plague (COVID), there were two long spells when I didn't drink any beer at all but  we gradually got back together as old friends often do. Then earlier this year, I recognised that I had been drinking beer every evening for weeks on end and I asked myself why. I decided to give it a rest - only drinking at the pub quiz on a Sunday night.

That has been my pattern since mid-September. I am down to ten "units" a week. In October, I received the shock news that my blood pressure was far too high and I am now taking medication to bring it down. It appears to be working. What was 190/90 is now down to 165/75  and sometimes lower than that. It was pure co-incidence that I had already reduced my intake of beer before this new phase in my life began but now I am motivated to maintain the present regime for the purpose of longevity. I measure my blood pressure every day and my next  follow-up doctor's appointment is on December 2nd. Now I am living by numbers.

"The Rivelin" on the edge of Sheffield

Of course I have always loved public houses - the ambience, the unique character, meeting new people and old friends and acquaintances. They have been like homes away from home and it is there that I have sunk the majority of my pints and enjoyed lots of great times.

However, the English pub scene is now much changed. Many independent  pubs have closed their doors for good and lots that remain are "food led" and corporate. It is not the same as it once was. And pub goers have changed their habits too. Pubs are not packed as they used to be with regular drinkers conversing and laughing and sometimes singing. Nowadays, many pub customers meet up on particular nights and frequently go home long before closing time.

Maybe this is just a phase and I will climb aboard the beer train once again - guzzling like a champion - but I don't think so.  Those days are over. I do not plan to give beer up completely, it will still be there and I will still enjoy it. But it won't be taking me over. The majority of my nights will continue to be spent at home and there'll be more tea, water and hot chocolate in the space that beer used to occupy.

"The Strines Inn" - five miles west of Sheffield

November

"Winter winds they do blow cold" - Sandy Denny

Today, with a bright wintry weather forecast, I was looking forward to a significant walk in far away countryside. However, that plan was soon postponed as our road had become a skating rink over night and the few cars attempting to tackle it were spinning on the black ice. Even the five yards from our front door to the pavement (American: sidewalk) looked hazardous.

Shirley took Phoebe home at around ten thirty when the ice was still lethal. That walk normally takes nine minutes but today it took twenty five. Their carefulness paid off for they didn't fall down. It is true that one fall on an icy footpath can change your life.

I stayed indoors till after 2pm and then I  was finally motivated to get outside. The streets were still icy even though the air temperature has risen to 3°C. Sometimes walking on the road surface, I kept a sharp eye out for patches of ice. I was heading to Bert's terraced house.

I rapped on his door which is normally left unlocked during the day. Then I rapped again. There were occupation sounds from within and then a voice, "Who is it?"

"It's me Bert, Neil!"

He fumbled with the key and after a short delay I was let in. He was wearing a black thermal vest and matching shorts. Quite a sight to behold. It soon became obvious that he had only just got up. Upstairs, his youngest son - Philip was also stirring. Way past two in the afternoon and they were both just rising!

Bert explained that they had a very late night watching films on the television. Besides, on such a cold day - what did they have to get up for? It had been warm and cosy in bed.

I had brought Bert a little birthday gift - two cans of Caribbean rum and cola and a bar of Cadburys' Bournville chocolate plus a card I made myself using the only picture of Bert that I have. He will be eighty eight years old on Sunday having been born in 1936. Hell, he can still remember bombsites in the east end of London and being evacuated to  Higham Ferrers in Northamptonshire. He and his family never went back to London's docklands.

Kindly, Philip poured me a glass of Bailey's Irish cream and I stayed for over an hour chatting with them. Surprisingly, Bert seemed in better shape than the last time I saw him. You expect gradual decline in his situation but I was seeing improvement. He even went upstairs to perform his ablutions. By the way, the staircases in traditional British terraced homes are  usually  very steep and potentially treacherous - even for people who are in the prime of their lives. I hope that those stairs will not be the death of him.

Returning home as evening was descending, I called in on Frances and the girls. Stewart has been away in Sweden all week on a company work project. Phoebe was glued to children's television as though entranced and Margot was at first having her afternoon nap. Frances has a strong job lead now and there have been preliminary phone conversations leading to a formal hour long presentation next week. If I were a gambling man, I would put a handful of banknotes on her getting this job but you never know, do you?

Images

 

All I have for you tonight is four images and a song. Above, a reminder to our American cousins that in Great Britain, the word "trump" is frequently used in place of "fart". For some strange reason "trump" is considered to be more polite over here  and children are customarily encouraged to use "trump" when describing the release of bodily gases via the anus. The book cover above is not a satirical mock-up of an explanatory children's book. It is the real thing.

Below, I had another go with A.I. to produce a better cover for "The Lost Schoolgirl". This time I instructed that the idea of a mirror should be present in the design.

Finally, I admit that there is a notable absence of pictures of me in this humble Yorkshire blog so tonight you are getting two for the price of one. Here's me with my grandson Zachary - down in Fulham, London at the end of October. It was two days after his first birthday

And here I am in Portugal in May of this year, cuddling my youngest granddaughter, Margot. She was born just nine days after Zachary on November 2nd.

Both babies are developing nicely, starting to walk and to vocalise. Neither of them cry without reason and they are both much loved. They will be meeting up again at Christmastime for fun and frolics. What a blessing it is to have three grandchildren who are fit and healthy with, hopefully,  lovely lives to live in the years ahead.

Phoebe - pictured this morning (Friday) as requested by Frau Riley

As I write, Phoebe Harriet is asleep upstairs. She loves to sleep over at Grandpa and Grandma's house. We are like putty in her hands. She will be four years old on January 15th.

Time marches on.

Finally, the song. I woke one morning this week with this Richie Havens song playing on the juke box in my head. He died in 2013 at the age of 72. I invite you to listen...