Lincoln

Lincoln Cathedral was the tallest building in the world for 238 years (1311–1549). In 1549, the massive central spire collapsed during a storm. If that spire had remained in situ, Lincoln Cathedral would have remained the tallest building in the world until 1890 when it would have been surpassed by Ulm Minster in Germany. With the spire, Lincoln Cathedral stood 525 feet above the ground - three feet taller than Egypt's Great Pyramid.

Medieval magnificence inside

Central tower that once held a soaring spire

What an incredible achievement by the builders! The resources involved would have been phenomenal. I don't think that there's any modern parallel in the world of construction. In 1311 there was no tubular scaffolding, no trucks to transport 70,000 tons of  dressed stone from distant quarries, no pneumatic hoists or builder's yards for the purchase of bags of cement and sand. Financially, the equivalent of billions of pounds must have been provided by the church establishment. Nobody knows how many men died during the cathedral's construction.

Yesterday, I caught the 9.44 train to Lincoln in order to undertake another country ramble. The walk took me past Brayford Pool, along The Foss Dyke and out into fertile arable land by dykes and ditches. I reached the village of South Carlton at two o' clock and spent a little time inside the church there but when I came out the blue skies of the morning were turning grey.

Joseph Banks Plaque in Lincoln Cathedral.
One of Lincolnshire's most influential sons.

I marched onwards to Burton-by-Lincoln and on the long path to Riseholme I met an elf. He was sitting under a tree with a can of lager - way out in the countryside. He had various gold piercings around his face and tattoos on his arms. He asked me if I had any tobacco but of course I am a committed non-smoker. I wanted to take a photo of him but revealing my camera might have been a temptation for him and I wasn't in the mood for wrestling with an elf.

From Riseholme across the A45 and back into Lincoln via the sprawling council estate of Ermine. By the time I reached the great cathedral it was five o'clock. Evening sunshine burst through the sky's grey canopy to illuminate the church's medieval magnificence. I stepped inside, surprised to avoid an admission charge. Beyond the rood screen, the choir were rehearsing, filling the void with an eerie harmonisation that swirled up to the vaulted stone ceiling above just as it would have done when medieval monks were the singers.

Back to Sheffield on the 18.24 train via Gainsborough, Worksop, Retford and Kiveton Park. A grand day out and another fourteen miles on my rambling mileometer.

The cathedral is visible for miles around.
Here I am viewing it from three miles away -
on Fen Lane, South Carlton.

Muscovy duck by Brayton Pool and
the cathedral looming beyond

Gravy

Of course the best gravy is made from meat juices and hot water from pans of boiled vegetables. Maybe add seasoning and then cornflour to thicken it. Over the years those of us who cook frequently learn little tricks about making tasty gravy. A dash of wine here, an Oxo cube there. Gravy can make or break certain meals.

But sometimes, there are no meat juices to use and you need to make a quick gravy accompaniment. This is why supermarkets have sections devoted to gravy granules and instant gravies. However, what they produce never tastes quite the same as real homemade gravy does it?

See the tub of onion gravy granules at the top of this post. We always have such a tub in our pantry but just recently I have been using these granules in a different way. Quite simply, I chop up an onion then fry it in a pan with a dash of olive oil and a knob of butter. When the chopped onion is softened up and beginning to brown, I pour in a jug of the instant "Bisto" gravy and stir together. The resulting gravy is much more palatable than it tastes without the onions.

That is my practical culinary tip for the day and I pass it on to visitors to this blog free of charge! Eat your heart out Chef Ramsay and coke-snorting Nigella! Next week - How to make great mashed potato! Tune in to "Cooking With Pudding" starring yours truly.

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Message to "Bisto" Ltd - For promoting one of your products a nice fat cheque would be appreciated. Thanks in anticipation of your speedy response.

Saturday

Stubborn cloud sitting in The Derwent Valley

Saturday morning. Still in my dressing gown. Shirley has gone to her patchwork class. I have finished my maple and pecan crunch breakfast cereal and swallowed the dregs of my first mug of tea of the day. More victims of campus shootings in America. A peace rally in Ankara, Turkey is blown apart by bombers leaving many dead and injured. A Sheffield police officer pleads guilty to possessing 1400 indecent images of children. Plenty to blog about. Plenty.

A poem? A recipe for Queen of Puddings? Recollections of childhood or the blackboard jungle? Reflections upon Syria, Putin or the killing of insects? The sacking of the temporary manager at "The Banner Cross Hotel" and what the future holds for my local pub? There's a lot to say.

But indolence has got the better of me this morning so instead of digging into my brain for sentences and thoughts, pontificating about politics, justice or the plight of mankind, I shall instead simply accompany this pointless blogpost with five pictures from my birthday morning walk. After all, Thursday's child has far to go. Up to the bathroom for a shower would be a good start but maybe another mug of tea first...

At Tinkersley

In Smeltingmill Wood

Ruined farm to the east of Tinkersley

On the path back to Beeley

Yesterday

What a marvellous lunch we had yesterday at Baldwins. Frances used to work there as a part-time waitress and she had phoned the restaurant to say that she would pay the bill. Jamie, the day manager, covered the cost of our drinks from the house budget - a pint and a half of Tetley's Smoothflow, two gin and tonics and a bottle of French sauvignon blanc. But that wasn't the lunch - just the liquid accompaniment.

At Baldwins you get a complimentary loaf of fresh bread on a wooden board. For my starter I had tomato, celery and lentil soup with a herb dumpling. Shirley had the pate stuffed mushrooms. For our mains I had slow cooked shank of lamb with braised root vegetables & lamb jus. Shirley had grilled tranche of cod florentine with spinach and rich cheddar sauce. My dessert was summer pudding while Shirley had creamy meringues in a chocolate sauce.

The dining environment at Baldwins is lovely - spacious and clean with nice details such as a rose in a cut glass vase, a glass jug of iced water, a linen tablecloth and "Made in Sheffield" stainless steel cutlery. Wonderful, It was also nice that we had the very latest reservation for the lunchtime session and by three thirty, when we departed, we were the only customers left.

Naturally, we didn't drive home but Baldwins is just a five minute walk from our house. Both of our cars were there because Shirley had scooted to the restaurant straight from work and I had been out into Derbyshire for an early birthday walk.

Three hours of plodding. Sunshine on the tops but clouds stubbornly refusing to budge from the valleys. The morning mistiness had bejewelled autumnal cobwebs and to accompany this post I have picked three pictures I took of this seasonal phenomenon. 

Pottery

Today, October 8th, is Great Britain's National Pottery Day.

Pottery

Shards and bits of jugs

Primitive patterns cracked

And potters' fingerprints.

Still they lie

Secretly scattered

Beneath the sod

Like the whispered words of 

Some ancient god.

Countless pieces

By earth concealed

Archaeology unrevealed

Where ploughs followed hooves

Machinery moves

Over our land of memories.

From distant centuries

These fragments sing

Of life and death 

Of everything.

October 8th 2015

Photo copyright - Stoke-on-Trent Museum Archaeological Society 2014

Paradise

Merry guard at Buckingham Palace

Carol in Cairns threw down a gauntlet after my last post. Perhaps she felt I had denigrated London unfairly. Even the title of the post - "Jungle" suggested a certain geographical bigotry. That's how it is in England. Those of us who live in "the provinces" are generally sick and tired of Londoncentricity. London gets the money and it gets the spotlight while in the nether regions of "UpNorth", The South West, Tyne-Tees and The Black Country we huddle round camp fires and eat chunks of stale bread. 

Carol wondered if I could write a more positive piece about our recent London trip - a literary counterpoint to my last post. Well here goes...

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Sunday morning in our glorious capital city. In the historic and verdant oasis that is Camberwell Green, a cheerful cockney woman in a mink coat is feeding a flock of bright-eyed pigeons. It is like a scene from "Mary Poppins" As I approach I realise that she is singing quietly to herself and as I pass by her I recognise the uplifting lyric - "And was Jerusalem builded here in England's green and pleasant land?"

Morning bath-time for cheery Camberwell pigeons

It seems like an anthem for London. Beyond her, I notice that that a mischievous grey squirrel is bounding merrily towards the majestic plane tree in the centre of the green. The elderly lady gives me a disarming smile and soon we are chattering away like old friends. It seems that the old lady - Elsie  - was once a housemaid in Buckingham Palace and also spent time as a Tiller girl - kicking her legs high in the limelight of the London Palladium. 

Behind her, substantial architect-designed blocks of artisan apartments reach for the blue skies above.They are part of the Peabody housing legacy - a precious gift to the people of south London. Many of the tenants have interesting family links with exotic faraway places  like St Lucia, Ghana, Afghanistan and Canton, Georgia - bringing extra vibrancy to this happy community which has embraced them with open arms.

I hear the distant sound of a musical siren as it makes its way to prestigious Kings College Hospital on beautiful Denmark Hill. I watch as two gentle ambulance women carefully disembark an elderly patient. She is on a stretcher in the twilight years of her life. Her hair is silver and wavy. A slender arm - the colour of  Devonshire cream - extends playfully from under the angora blanket. She sees me through the hospital railing, our lives colliding for a precious moment and we grin at each other. "I'm Dame Judy Dench!" she beams. "I'm Yorkshire Pudding!" I reply. "I hope they make you better Judy! May I have your autograph?"

Ahead, an African man outside A&E is enjoying a lively conversation with three security guards and two police officers who are trying to help the fellow as much as they can. He is enjoying the banter so much that he is reluctant to depart their company. But eventually he saunters away with a friend discussing sport, music and their unexpectedly foreshortened hospital visit.

There's an excellent information sign by Camberwell Green. It tells inquisitive readers that the green was in existence as early as 1245 AD when Camberwell was an agricultural village to the south of London which would then have had a small population of some 25,000 inhabitants. So the green has endured for a thousand years as London has developed, embracing and nourishing the forlorn  little villages that once surrounded it. I see someone sleeping on a bench there. Probably a late night reveller who had enjoyed a spiffing good time, dancing through till dawn but unable to make the last few steps needed to get home to her roaring hearthside and her pet budgerigar - Adrian.

By our daughter's luxury apartment which is in a block not dissimilar to Trump Tower, I notice two Polish holidaymakers taking pictures with their hi-tech phones. What have they seen I wonder? At the corner, close to the colourful recycling bins, is someone's pet rat. Awww! He is preening himself meticulously and he is the size of a healthy wild rabbit. He is wearing a little studded red collar with a heart shaped medallion that announces his murine identity - Johnno. After I have stroked Johnno and tickled his little chin, he tiptoes away in search of  hazelnuts, fallen apples  or any other healthy snacks he might find.

Sadly, the time came to take our leave of the throbbing metropolis via historic London Bridge under which aquamarine Father Thames still flowed comfortingly. We drove past the classical stone columns of The Bank of England and The Angel, Islington, reluctantly heading homewards. The diesel-spattered sign at the start of the rutted old motorway said "M1 - The North", like the hand that pointed Greek heroes across the Styx to Hades and eternal darkness.

Proud Camberwell College of Arts

Peaceful Camberwell Green

P.S.

Composed upon Westminster Bridge

Earth hath not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

by William Wordsworth 
(1770-1850)

Jungle

"The Nag's Head" on Camberwell Road

Sunday morning in The London Jungle. By a rundown shopping parade on Camberwell Road, a tall black man in a loose tracksuit is listening to music from his mobile phone. He is leaning on a wall and there is nobody else around. As I approach I realise that he is singing along to the beat and as I pass by him I hear his monotonous and desperate lyric - "Too much pressure. Too much pressure. Too much pressure."

It seems like an anthem for London. Beyond him, I notice that the sign above the launderette is missing its "d" so it reads "LAUN ERETTE" like the name of some forgotten minor film actor. Perhaps she had a role in a film titled "Too Much Pressure" about romance on a runaway steam train.

Behind her and Singhs' grocery shop and the Asante Barbers and the William Hill Betting Shop is a grim postwar housing estate in which the blocks are all named after English poets - Pope and Keats and Marvell for example. Most of the tenants are first or second generation immigrants like the "too much pressure" man. I wonder briefly if any residents have even a little cognisance of the poetry crafted by these long departed men whose names always appear on their humble addresses. I also wonder how Andrew Marvell - from East Yorkshire - might have felt to see his name on such a sad residential block in the heart of South London. What an accolade!

There are always sirens. Mostly ambulances heading for Kings College Hospital at Denmark Hill. I watch as two ambulance women unload an elderly patient. She is on a stretcher, old and frail. Her hair is white and unkempt. A bony arm - the colour of wallpaper paste - extends from the blanket. She sees me through the railing, our lives colliding for a fragment of time and we make thin smiles. She is not long for this world.

Ahead, another "too much pressure" man from another continent is arguing the toss outside A&E with three security guards and two police officers who are trying desperately not to arrest the incandescent fellow. He won't depart easily and I really cannot understand his beef but he has probably kicked off inside the hospital and has just been escorted out. Why can't he just go away? He could be mentally impaired.

There's an information sign by Camberwell Green. It tells readers that the green was in existence as early as 1245 AD when Camberwell was an agricultural village to the south of London which would then have had a meagre population of some 25,000 souls. So the green has endured for a thousand years as London has grown monstrously, devouring the small communities that once surrounded it.. I see someone sleeping on a bench there. Hood up. Can of cider on the pavement below. It was eleven o'clock in the morning.

By Camberwell Green

By our daughter's flat which is in a block not dissimilar to Marvell House or Keats House, I notice two Polish men taking photos with their camera phones. What have they seen? At the corner, close to the recycling bins,  is a healthy looking London rat. Not one of those that spouts verbiage in The Houses of Parliament or writes rubbish for "The Daily Mail" but a furry brown rat with a pink tail. He is preening himself quite brazenly and he is the size of a wild rabbit. Almost fearlessly, he takes his time to amble away in search of yet more delicious human detritus.

We exited The London Jungle via London Bridge, The Bank of England and The Angel, Islington. Riding high above the city in our "uprade" hire vehicle, I was white van man for the weekend. The sign at the start of the motorway said "M1 - The North", like the star that guided those kings to Bethlehem.

The Peabody Estate, Camberwell Green
Frances's flat is on the ground floor.

By the entrance to Camberwell
College of Arts on Peckham Road

"The Nag's Head" again with a Southwark Council rubbish sack

P.S.

When I have fears that I may cease to be

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,

Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,

Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;

When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

By John Keats

(1795 - 1821)