Schlepping

Looking west from Stanage Edge to Lose Hill and Win Hill - near High Neb

Yesterday I promised myself a walk and that is what happened. My trusty South Korean steed - Sir Clint - carried me out of the city to Redmires Reservoirs . Long term readers of this humble blog will have been there with me before. It's only three miles west of our house.

Stanage Pole

With boots and fingerless gloves on I schlepped* up to Stanage Pole - a lonesome landmark on the moors. Then along an ancient track to Stanage Edge itself. There I turned north because I was heading for the triangulation pillar on High Neb. I could see it white and tiny on the horizon over a mile away. 

But there was something else before it  in the moorland vegetation - another flash of whiteness. What could it be? I have been up there many times before and I did not recall another white feature. Whatever it was I resolved to take a picture of it.

However, as I drew closer I realised it was a human being. A black man in white robes looking east. There was nobody else within half a mile of us. I wanted to get closer but I was apprehensive. You see, he was spouting forth the word of The Lord. It was a mish-mash of angry words and biblical references pouring out of him in a torrent. 

He was unaware of my presence nearby. Perhaps I should have got closer but the one-sided conversation he was having with The Lord seemed fiery, filled with desperation and anger. It was bloody cold up there. Surely he could have been having his chat with The Lord in a nice warm room. Mind you, the neighbours would probably have been banging on the dividing wall yelling, "Why can't you whisper to The Lord?"

I would have said to him: "There's no point imagining that The Lord will hear you better if you just shout louder because he isn't there. In spite of your so-called 'faith', he never was. It was all just a story. And that's the way it is my friend. Sorry to break it to you."

I lingered by the white pillar for a little while and then turned back, reaching Clint two hours after I had set off. He was snoring in his parking place and some small children in bobble hats were pointing at him and laughing.

Last night, I slept soundly then just before nine o'clock I threw back the bedroom curtains to see this unexpected scene:-

*schlepped  -   If you schlep somewhere you go there with a lot of difficulty or effort.  I thank Steve at "Shadows and Light" for introducing me to the word.

February

...February made me shiver

With every paper I'd deliver

Bad news on the doorstep

I couldn't take one more step

And so now we are in February. Here in the northern hemisphere the days are lengthening and lightening. As I write, the sky above is blue and the sun is shining down with bright hope for the future.

Last night I left a chicken carcass on our lawn as is my habit whenever we have had a roast chicken dinner. Usually, it is gone by the morning as if by magic - taken away by grateful urban foxes. However, when I opened the curtains this morning the ravaged chicken had a mischief or gulp of magpies around it. They are such clever, opportunistic birds.

More than nine million British people have received their first anti-COVID inoculation. At this rate I will be in line for my first jab by the end of this month. I cannot wait and I will march to the vaccination venue with my sleeve rolled up singing a happy song. I shall have no qualms at all and I urge any doubters out there to forget all the anti-vaxx nonsense. Wise up! Get the jab when it is your turn! It's not just a jab for you, it's for your fellow citizens too.

After I have had my shower, I hope to go somewhere for a walk. I  prefer to take long walks in unfamiliar territory but nowadays I have to travel twenty miles or more to find such a location. This desire is partly linked with my keen photographic contributions to  the geograph website. If you explore that site you will see thousands of lovely pictures from all across The British Isles. It is quite a treasure chest.

We spoke with our son Ian via "Facetime" yesterday afternoon. He lives down in London so of course we have not seen him in ages. He is very keen to get up here to  meet his brand new little niece. He looked and sounded good and his life seems all the better because he has a steady girlfriend now - Sarah. One day they may be the lead characters in a romantic novel - "Love in Lockdown". It has been a very  strange time in which to forge a new relationship but in spite of COVID, life must go on. As February reminds us - love trumps everything.

And with this thought in mind, it's now time for that shower methinks.

Cuddling

Two weeks after her birth, here's Phoebe on Grandpa's shoulder. In all my years of teaching I never taught one girl named Phoebe but curiously two female ancestors on my father's side had that name. They would have been housemaids or humble agricultural workers up on the moors west of Scarborough - like most of my father's family in years gone by. 

Phoebe is doing well. She is putting on weight. Her eyes are clearly focusing and she is beginning to make some sense of this multi-sensory  world she has now found herself in. She has not yet learnt that humans tend to sleep in the night-time and get active in the daytime but Frances is a patient and pragmatic mother. She knows that this post-natal confusion will not last forever.

English

How The English hold a tea cup

Having described Americans in vivid detail, it is only fair that I should summarise The English. I am not talking about the English language but the English people. Of course Yorkshire people do not consider themselves to be fully English. We are first and foremost of Yorkshire and we trace our heritage back to Viking invaders and to the ancient kingdom of Northumbria.

No my friends, the true English live south of here in faraway counties with strange names - Surrey, Hampshire, Kent, Bedfordshire, Essex and the like. And of course that is where London is situated - the great metropolis of The English.

The English all talk as if their mouths are filled with marbles. Their vowel sounds are very similar. Favourite utterances of The English  are "Gosh!", "Golly!" and "Oh, I say!"

The English send their sons to boarding schools when they are still in nappies (American: diapers) where the play rugger and cricket, learn Latin, eat from tuck boxes and suffer physical or sexual abuse at the hands of their housemasters. Meantime English daughters ride ponies at gymkhanas, take piano lessons and stomp off to their rooms yelling "It's not fair!"

The English have afternoon tea every day. Crustless salmon paste and cucumber sandwiches are presented on cake stands with iced buns, scones and jam tarts. The tea itself arrives in a china teapot with exquisite cups and saucers and silver spoons.

In the summer they attend horse racing events at Ascot or ride their own horses across The South Downs or through The New Forest, yelling "Tally-ho!"

The father of the house is called either Tarquin, Douglas or Neville . He smokes a pipe while checking how his stocks and shares are doing in "The Financial Times". On weekdays he travels into London on a crowded train wearing a bowler hat, carrying an umbrella and a leather briefcase like all the others on board.

The mother has gardening gloves and secateurs to prune roses. She is called Arabella, Fiona or Belinda and she titters behind her lace handkerchief when ever her beloved husband makes an amusing remark. At Christmas she goes wild, treating herself to a small dry sherry. She has a spaniel called Tinkle who is an "absolute darling".

The English know little of Yorkshire and the other counties "Up North". They never travel there, preferring to visit The Isle of Wight, Cornwall or The French Riviera and Tuscany for their holidays. As old maps used to say of unexplored regions - "There Be Dragons!"

The English always vote for The Conservative Party and have framed photographs of Churchill, Thatcher or John Major in their bathrooms. Presumably, this avoids any need for laxatives. Out on their manicured lawns they play croquet and down in the village they occasionally visit "The Red Lion" to guffaw under the horse brasses with a buxom landlady called Joyce who is an "absolute darling".

Obviously, I could say much more about The English. I have observed them all my life. They are the true inheritors of The British Empire. If you require further information about The English please pose your questions in the comments below.

Americans

English people of my generation have always been fascinated by America and Americans. We grew up on American popular music, American films and TV shows and heard tales of American servicemen who fornicated constantly with our women when they were posted over here in the nineteen forties. They brought chewing gum, "Lucky Strike" cigarettes and nylon stockings - rather like missionaries in Africa with their gifts of beads and mirrors.

In my last blogpost, I revealed my intimate understanding of Americans. This was achieved not just through the popular culture I absorbed in my youth but via several research trips to the USA. I was first over there in 1972 and my last visit was in 2014. I was half hoping to make a further research visit this past year but that coronavirus thing got in the way.

This is what I wrote in my last post: "It is well-known over here in England that all Americans are stupendously rich. They drive around in massive cars and have massive refrigerators and every night they go to drive-in movies where they watch cowboy films on massive screens while munching huge handfuls of popcorn from massive paper buckets."

Here are some extra key points about Americans.

They are all born with pearly white teeth that are as straight and white as piano keys and they never need to visit dentists. Even elderly Americans smile brightly in their retirement villages. In contrast, all British people have rotten brown stumps in their crooked mouths.

All Americans know the lyrics of "Home, Home on the Range" - having learnt to sing it while sitting round campfires at summer camp.  It is like a second national anthem  and it is to me a little surprising that Lady Gaga did not sing it at President Biden's inauguration.

American mothers are all called "mom" and they like massive household appliances.  They make meatloaf every day apart from the days when they have pizzas delivered. American fathers like to sit in massive Lay-Z-Boys drinking "Rolling Rock" and watching baseball or ice hockey on their massive  TV sets. These fathers are all called Chuck, Hank or Doberman and when they come back from work they put their hats on hat stands before calling out, "Honey, I'm home!"

In every American home there is a massive arsenal of weapons. Americans like to venture out into the woods at weekends shooting moose and other "critters" which is the term they use for "creatures".  Oftentimes they cut off the animals' heads and mount them on their walls - like trophies.

In America there are no shops as such - just shopping malls. Every town has a massive shopping mall in the suburbs and everybody drives out to it at the weekend to buy clothing from "Abercrombie and Fitch". Nobody ever looks at the price tags and afterwards they get massive chocolate milk shakes and burgers before driving home.

In American high schools, the kids never do any school work. Boys play American football in helmets while girls join marching bands. Mostly school is about dating and planning ahead for the school prom. There's also a considerable amount of hanging about by school lockers.

Yes folks, I know a lot about Americans as the observations revealed above demonstrate. If you need any more information, please ask. My apologies to  Canadians and Mexicans who are, when you think about it,  also  Americans as they share the continent of North America. In this post, I was of course not referring to them. 

Have a nice day y'all!

Gift

Shirley and I spent yesterday afternoon in The Palace of Princess Phoebe where she is attended to by her two slaves. Not quite two weeks old, Princess Phoebe's life chiefly involves three activities - the consumption of mother's milk, the filling of nappies and sleeping like a baby.

Yesterday her grandfather - King Pudding de Yorkshire - sang her songs and she was bemused, lying in his arms as the vibrations of his tuneful singing were absorbed by her rib cage. She looked up with her bright blue eyes wondering, "Who is this man?" and "Can I make him a slave too?"

How heart-warming it is to observe our lovely daughter Frances taking to the role of motherhood like a duck to water.  She is so patient and so loving. In spite of her tiredness there is a beatific aura about her. After all, she has been the engine of an ongoing miracle.

When we got home there was a mysterious Amazon package lying on our doormat. It was addressed to Phoebe Pudding so I guessed that it had come from someone in Blogland - but who could it be? Over the telephone, Frances gave me permission to open the package and inside were these two lovely children's books:-

But there was no note. However, later a comment in this blog revealed that the sender was none other than Mrs Jennifer Barlow of Florence, South Carolina. What a kind and generous thing to do! Once again - thank you so much Jennifer.

It is well-known over here in England that all Americans are stupendously rich. They drive around in massive cars and have massive refrigerators and every night they go to drive-in movies where they watch cowboy films on massive screens while munching huge handfuls of popcorn from massive paper buckets. Given this fact, we have decided to appoint Jennifer as Princess Phoebe's official American auntie. Henceforth she will be known to the princess as "Your rich Auntie Jennifer from South Carolina". It has nothing to do with the wealth. Honest.

100,000

Stuart Goodman in his daughter's arms - one of the 100,000

On and on this bloody pandemic goes. So many words spoken about it, so many words printed. Together they could make a pile that would reach the moon. A year ago, very little had been said about the virus. It was just easing itself into our consciousness - the ultimate elephant in the room.

Yesterday, Britain's official death toll surpassed one hundred thousand. Our scruffy, bumbling prime minister appeared on TV saying that he was sorry about all the lives that have been lost. Arguably, he should have also said sorry for dragging his feet at various points in this living nightmare, having the guts to  admit to some of his many errors.

Incredibly, it is only now - this very day - that airport border controls are going to be beefed up to get incoming travellers from South America, Portugal and South Africa into quarantine hotels. Who is going to police them?  Who is going to arrange food supplies?  In past months our borders have been pretty porous with people coming and going as if there was no deadly pandemic. As I say - quite incredible and the latest initiative just seems like an attempt to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted.

A hundred thousand. So many people. Enough to fill the old Wembley Stadium in London.  For them the match is over. No more flag waving. No more brass bands marching on the pitch. They have gone. Their families could not even bury them with the funeral goodbyes and the dignity their lives merited. So tragic.

As if in the aftermath of a war, let us pause to think of the hundred thousand... "At the going down of the sun and in the morning - we will remember them".