Madwoman

Nobody knows why a certain millstone outcrop to the east of the Kinder Plateau, high above The Vale of Edale, is called Madwoman's  Stones, Last Monday, on a bright blue sky Autumn morning that was my destination - Madwoman's Stones. Perhaps Margaret Thatcher had once hiked up there? Maybe they were named after a certain lady blogger who, for diplomatic reasons, shall remain nameless. I imagined a spurned damsel from medieval times raging at a storm just like King Lear or a photo-shoot for Madonna's latest album. Madwoman's Stones and I a madman in hot pursuit.

Above Hagg Farm, not long after setting off, I came across these disused farm buildings -  Bellhagg Barn.

This is Upper Ashop - a sheep farm that clings to the southern slopes of the  Upper Ashop Valley

I was provided with a magnificent view into magical Alport Dale

Nestling on the edge of Ashop Moor, this shooting cabin built in 1935. A place for  the idle rich to  drink brandy, exchange bawdy tales and clean rifles before blasting bewildered grouse out of the Derbyshire skies. And they call it "sport"!

And so to Madwoman's Stones, A remote and exposed moorland setting but a rather squat millstone formation.  For thousands of years it has resisted perpetual assault from the weather's armoury. No madwomen in sight.

The Druid Stone, half a mile away, was a more impressive natural sculpture with its weathered layers like old skin. 

Days are short in November and in the late afternoon the light starts to fade.  Here's a  lonesome tree  on Crookstone Hill.

Then it was back down into the Ashop Valley and across The Snake Pass to where I'd parked my car. There was a note on the windscreen from an irate coach driver, informing me what trouble he'd had trying to squeeze past on the single track lane from Hagg Farm Outdoor Centre. Oh dear! As I was removing my muddy boots,  he came fuming along the lane. I apologised profusely even though my car was very evidently off the tarmac - the difficulty had been in the curve of the bend. Silly me! That's one place I won't park again.

Completion

In October, I set myself the task of creating seven poems that took their cues from the so-called "Seven Deadly Sins". When I began I didn't know what would emerge. That's a funny thing about the creative process. Sometimes you have to just go with the flow and there may be no clear logic to what appears.

Thinking about the "sins", it seems to me that they crop up in everyone's lives from time to time. They are part of what it is to be human. I have trouble accepting that there is anything essentially "sinful" about pride, wrath, lust or even sloth. Arguably, the seven sins were highlighted in medieval times as moral sticks to beat down upon already cowed, "God-fearing" church congregations. Stimulating self-searching guilt and shame was helpful to the maintenance of rigid social hierarchy and religious obedience, an obedience that invariably  had economic undertones.

Perhaps the seven "sins" are not the best features of humanity but what is so "deadly" about them? Why should we be ashamed that in our lives many human facets will shine - for example: heroism, love, selflessness, charity, intelligence, dedication, creativity, as well as the "sins", explored in my seven poems. Thank you for reading them and a special thank you to those visitors who left thoughtful or encouraging comments. Here they are again - clickable - for your contemplation and convenience:-

"Envy" "Sloth"  "Greed" "Lust"  "Wrath" "Gluttony" "Pride"

"The Seven Deadly Sins" by Hieronymous Bosch (1450-1526)

Pride

"Windswept Lion" by Rolf Harris (b.1930)

Pride

Swatting flies on the Serengeti 
Here in the shade of this acacia tree 
We gorged on warthog yesterday 
And I took the lion’s share. 
There is Bititi whose name means strength 
And Habiba my beloved 
Zawadi and sweet Asili. 
Yes, we swat flies - 
Thropping our tails like ropes. 
I narrow my eyes 
To where the young ones play 
In the long white grass - 
Taking the strength 
Of my blood 
To the future’s 
Distant hills.

Nellie's

"Nellie's" real name is "The White Horse". It's in the East Yorkshire town of Beverley where I went to school between the ages of sixteen and eighteen. It's opposite St Mary's Church and is, in my humble opinion, the best pub in the world.

"Nellie's" has no music or blaring televisions but what it does have is stone flagged floors, roaring coal fires, the original gaslights, a labyrinth of cosy Victorian rooms and very cheap beer. I was there again last Saturday with my old chum Tony after Hull City's victory over Barnsley. We guzzled pints and then advanced to the delightful "Dine Bangla" Bangladeshi restaurant close to Wednesday marketplace.

I first went in "Nellie's" when I was seventeen and there I met the very old lady who ran the pub with her very old sisters. The old lady in question was - you've guessed it - Nellie Collinson! In those days, apart from Nellie and her sisters, women were not allowed in the main public bar. It was men only and should a female customer cross the threshold the room would go silent and once I even heard choral hissing from the assembled male drinkers. Naturally, I felt obliged to join in. Hisssssssssss!

I have none of my own pictures of "Nellie's" so I had to hunt down these photos via Google:-

The scullery at "Nellie's"  Rosy Hunt

"The White Horse"  on Hengate, Beverley

"Nellie's" is a throwback to earlier times. Records show that it was in existence in 1666 and had extensive stabling round the back. The fact that it has survived into the twenty first century is really quite amazing. I wish it was just round the corner from our house but as it isn't I shall just have to look forward to my next visit there in the not too distant future. If ever you visit Beverley with its magnificent medieval Minster and its thriving Saturday market, make sure you nip into "Nellie's". By the way, women are now allowed everywhere in the pub except the Gents which is the only place we fellows can still find some welcome peace.

Volare

Obama wins a second term!

Obama, oh oh!
Obama, oh oh oh oh!
Let's fly way up to the clouds
Away from the maddening crowds
We can sing in the glow of a star that I know of
Where lovers enjoy peace of mind
Let us leave the confusion and all the delusion behind
Just like birds of a feather, a rainbow together we'll find
Obama, oh oh!
Obama, oh oh oh oh!

Dove

Another lovely day on Friday - bright sunshine was predicted so I headed south-west through the scenic Derbyshire town of Bakewell and the peakland village of Monyash to the hamlet of Parsley Hay from where I trudged over into the beautiful green valley of the River Dove. I walked for four hours solid, into the Manifold Valley and through Sheen till I reached Hartington. There I drank a pint of milk and wolfed down a beef and tomato sandwich before heading back northwards, passing Bank Top Farm and old lead mine workings. The sun was sinking behind the hills when I finally got back to my car. It was another grand day out in the ever changing and ever surprising Peak District countryside. Here are five eight pictures to represent Friday's invigorating ramble:-

The Dove Valley looking north to Chrome Hill

Ponds south of Pilsbury Lodge

At Pilsbury Castle

Inside St Luke's Church, Sheen

Pike Lane Cottage

In Hartington

The sinking sun casts shadows of a hilltop
copse on the other side of the valley

Sunset over the Dove Valley

Gluttony

"Pig's Head" by David Levine (1926-2009)

Gluttony
“He lives like a pig.” - American property developer Donald Trump on Scottish
farmer, fisherman, and environmental protester - Michael Forbes (2010) 

The sunset is golden.
He pats his mane of golden hair,
Unbuckles his golden seatbelt,
Fingers the golden family crest
On a golden velvet cushion.
“Can I get you something to eat Mr Trump?”
His golden hostess smiles.

He can have anything -
Anything at all:
Lobster newburg,
A marbled mansion at Palm Beach
With twenty gilded bathrooms,
A fat slice of Scotland’s coast,
Black diamonds of Provence
With edible gold leaf,
Another wife or golden car, another kid -
Anything.

Midas-like
He looks out over still golden clouds,
Checks his golden Rolex
And then, being Donald Trump
He raises a porky buttock and trumps
Flying -
Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee-wee
All the way home.