1931

A couple of weeks ago I bought an old book from the Oxfam shop. It's called "Across The Derbyshire Moors" and it was printed in Sheffield in 1931 - that's eighty eight years ago. Written by a  local Justice of the Peace and newspaper editor  called John Derry, it is essentially a guide to twelve country walks in the Sheffield region. Needless to say, all of John Derry's recommended walks are very familiar to me.

The little book also contains several advertisements for local businesses.. For example on the back cover there's an advert for "Sugg's" - a sports and outdoors shop located on Angel Street. It claims to provide "Everything for THE RAMBLER" including a 14 inch x 14 inch rucksack "with outside pocket". This retailed at two shillings and sixpence which is twelve and a half new pence in our decimal money or sixteen American cents.

Sugg's also advertised a portable tent for two or three people - retailing at seventeen shillings and sixpence - well under one British pound.

In the introduction John Derry urges ramblers to be respectful of the countryside. He says - "Remember that to smoke on a heath-covered grouse moor in summer is as rank treason as to smoke in a friend's stackyard seated on the straw."

Each of the twelve chapters contains a folded reproduction of a carefully hand drawn map. It's not clear who first made these maps. Perhaps it was John Derry himself.

As I read through "Across the Derbyshire Moors" I sensed the author's passion for the great outdoors. He is aware of geology, plant life, history and, the way paths bend and rise and he celebrates beautiful views, sometimes bemoaning modern changes to the landscape. It is a guide book - yes but it's driven by the writer's personality and his love of walking. Of course, I felt a strong connection with him.

John Derry died in 1937 and therefore did not witness World War II or its legacy. He speaks from a more innocent and simpler time. When Ladybower Reservoir had not yet been constructed, when tramcars carried ramblers to the edge of the city and when Harrop's sold something called "Solvit". I have no idea what it was but I very much doubt that it had anything to do with crosswords.

-ess

If a king and a queen crack out a male child, he will be a prince. If the child is female she will be a princess. Does anybody dispute this? Is there anyone out there who would prefer the princess to be called prince? Would it be better if our queen's only daughter was called Prince Anne?

When I was a boy, public buses did not only have drivers: there was a second adult who sold tickets and checked passes. If that person was a man, he was known as a conductor. If the person was a woman, she was known as a conductress.  Was there anything wrong with that?

Lying under an acacia tree on the plains of Africa a lion may be flicking away flies with his tail. Next to him there will probably be lionesses - adult females. Is there anything wrong with calling them lionesses?

Now it used to be that the accepted term for a woman who writes poetry was poetess. Increasingly, that word has been discarded in favour of the masculine version - poet. Some women writers seem to bristle about the term "poetess" as if it was somehow demeaning or suggestive of second class writing.

The same applies to the world of acting. Once we had actors and actresses but the term "actress" is now in decline and many women who appear on the stage or in film seem to prefer the masculine term. They're all actors now.

Being a simple Yorkshire fellow, I must say that I find these shifting lexical sands rather confusing. About it all, there seems to be some tenuous connection with feminist thinking - as if in certain instances the feminine versions of  particular nouns have become strangely unacceptable. At the same time some other -ess words appear to have escaped scrutiny - princess, lioness, hostess, headmistress, sorceress, heiress etc.. What's going on?

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I posted the above just after midnight and took this picture through our kitchen window at 6.30am this morning. Not white... but whiteness:-

Portrait

On Wednesday, when I was sorting through book donations at the Oxfam shop, I came across the portrait shown above. Not the original I hasten to add but a printed version that had fallen out of a coffee table art book.

I stared at that portrait for a few moments and I was very struck by it. At first I didn't know who painted it or when. I guessed it was created many years ago but the young man in the picture seemed so modern and defiant. It was as if he was challenging onlookers, as proud of his beliefs as  he was of his flowing brown locks.

And then I discovered that it was painted in the 1480's in Florence, Italy by no lesser artist than Alessandro Botticelli. It is known simply as "Portrait of a Young Man" and it hangs in The National Gallery in London. Nobody knows who the subject of the painting was but he reflects Florentine pride and at least one commentator has suggested that he may have been a member of the city's thriving artistic community.

In the late fifteenth century, it was customary for Italian portraits to be made in profile only. Botticelli's decision to show this young man face-on was in its time quite revolutionary.

The painting speaks to us from over five hundred years ago and it says - "Look at me. I am as sentient, and as involved in the world as you are my friend. Five hundred years means very little." 

It is worth noting that Leonardo da Vinci painted "Mona Lisa" just a few years after Botticelli finished "Portrait of a Young Man". It is very possible that the latter painting informed the creation of the former and hugely more famous portrait. But I like Botticelli's picture better. The young man may have died long ago but through the painting he remains very much alive.

Blogpost

What do you do on a miserable Thursday when rain is siling down and your appointments diary is empty? In my case, I rode on the number 82 bus into the city centre. heading once again to The Showroom Cinema.

I went to see the 12 o'clock screening of "Green Book" starring Viggo Mortensen and Mahershala Ali. I had a rough idea of the plot and of course I was aware that the film won the "Best Picture" oscar at this year's Academy Awards.

Two hours later, I left The Showroom having been thoroughly entertained. "Green Book" is charming. It takes you on an American road trip and it reflects upon racism in the early nineteen sixties. It made me laugh and it made me cry and I enjoyed the chemistry between the two lead actors.

It isn't hard-hitting or gritty, it has a certain lightness of touch. However, one image that has stayed with me is of a quiet moment in The Deep South when Tony (Mortensen) and Don Shirley's (Ali's) hire car has overheated. Tony raises the hood (English:bonnet) to see what is going on and concert pianist Don Shirley also slides out of the vehicle. In a field across the road, black farm workers are quietly tilling the soil.  They look up in puzzlement as Don Shirley looks back at them. Nothing is said and soon the travellers move on. It is as if Ali's character had arrived from a different planet where Afro-Americans might have a chance to make something of their lives.

Yes. I enjoyed "Green Book" and I can see why it got the nod for "Best Picture". It wasn't setting out to dig deep into the reality of American racism. It was setting out to entertain and that it did. It was a real "feelgood" film.

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In other Pudding news. .. In January I finished reading "Endeavour" by Peter Moore. I blogged about it here. Later I e-mailed the author praising him but also raising a niggling question. I wanted to know why he had twice described Whitby boats passing "the mouth of the Ouse" when he should surely have been referring to "the mouth of the Humber". I pointed out that there is an inland point where the Yorkshire Ouse and The River Trent meet and that is where The River Humber begins.

Peter Moore kindly wrote back to me. He had taken on board my point. He wrote, "Most importantly, you'll be pleased to know that you caught me just in time and the Ouse has been transformed into the Humber for the Endeavour paperback which will be published in the summer. Thanks for that - appreciated!"

How delightful! I guess this will be the closest that I ever get to immortality. After all, time is running out - as it is for all of us.

Walking

After my memorable trip to the mean streets of Mumbai and after narrowly avoiding an unintended blog implosion, it's time to retreat to my number one comfort zone - walking. 

Walking is one of the best things a healthy human being can do. When you walk you see things. When you walk your blood pulses through your veins and your lungs are exercised. You burn off calories and your mental state is improved. Nature never intended that human beings should spend hour after hour sitting on their backsides.. We have legs so we should use them. (My apologies to anyone reading this who has mobility problems)

That's my promotional message over. Now to the practice.Walking. With pictures.

When Shirley and I were in the nation's capital recently, we stayed in our daughter's flat in Wood Green. On Sunday February 24th, the weather was far too lovely to stay indoors so we went to an area of north east London called Walthamstow Wetlands. There are several reservoirs there and The River Lea passes through, making its way to The Thames.

If you were so inclined you could walk for six miles amongst the manmade lakes but we covered just two miles under a cobalt blue sky east of Tottenham. There were distant views of Stamford Hill and Canary Wharf and I saw new apartment blocks rising up in the Black Horse Lane area of Walthamstow, surrounded by yellow cranes. 

Fast forward to Tuesday afternoon.I parked on the edge of the Derbyshire town of Bakewell, not far from a preparatory school called St Anselm's. Then I walked down to All Saints Church, in which I saw the marble effigy of a baby and the tomb of Sir Thomas Wendesley who was killed at The Battle of Shrewsbury in July 1403.

I crossed the River Wye via the town's old bridge and then walked two miles south of the town to Over Haddon before taking a different route back to Bakewell. 

Noton Barn Farm near Bakewell

As I was climbing up out of a little valley near Burton Closes, I was surprised to see a schoolgirl on her own walking towards me. She was in school uniform and was probably twelve or thirteen years old. It was one o'clock in the afternoon. If she had screamed, nobody would have heard her at that location. I wondered if her parents or indeed her school knew about her solitary rambling. In this modern world which is allegedly fraught with danger, it is almost taboo for young girls to wander along country paths on their own. I hope she makes it safely to adulthood.

Soon I was back in Bakewell. I hoped to buy a Bakewell pudding from Ye Olde Puddinge Shop but when I drove Clint into the car park in the market place the parking ticket machines announced that the minimum fee was £1.50. I only wanted to stop for five minutes so I forgot the Bakewell pudding and drove home.

Sorry

Yesterday, I had the bright idea of changing the picture at the top of this blog. Very quickly, I wished that I hadn't bothered. Everything was going wrong.

The sidebar shifted itself down to the bottom. I googled possible solutions but they didn't help and soon things started to disappear. Was I really losing the evidence of fourteen years of regular blogging activity?  I was in despair.

Not only was I in despair, I was in the "advanced" zone of blog customisation. It was somewhere I definitely did not belong. Undoubtedly, I belonged in the beginners' easy peasy zone.

So I did this and I did that. Clicked this and clicked that. And then, after a couple of hours of html distress, a miracle happened. I managed to resurrect the disappearing blog. "Yorkshire Pudding" was about to live again.

Now the green-themed appearance the blog currently has was never intended but from my angle it will do - at least for the time being. I am just happy to have got the blog back on line for others to view. 

Of course the moral of this tale is "Leave well alone". So please think twice if in an idle moment you think it might be a good idea to change the appearance of your blog. Just stop right there. Finally, I humbly apologise if the appearance of "Yorkshire Pudding" is no longer to your liking. With hindsight, I agree that stability and sameness can be very attractive qualities.

Mumbai

CONTINUED

PART THREE

The Gateway of India

What a wonderful day of sightseeing I had in Mumbai! We managed to see everything that was on my list. 

Our taxi driver, Viraj, was a mine of information but it turns out that Sweety knew next to nothing about Mumbai's main tourist attractions and historical sites. It appeared all new to her and she listened to Viraj as intently as I did. Though she was a most attractive young woman, she was a hopeless escort. Incredible as it may seem, she had never seen The Gateway of India before in her life! Flabbergasting! Just wait till I reported back to Mr Singh!

The three of us had lunch in a traditional cafe overlooking Juhu beach. I forget its name but it was owned by Viraj's brother-in-law. Excellent curry cuisine though Sweety ate like a hedge sparrow.

When she visited the "Ladies" I remarked to Viraj that Sweety's escorting skills left much to be desired. In fact, I seemed to know more about the places we were visiting than she did! Viraj was enjoying a mouthful of tarka dhal and spluttered most of it out as he burst with laughter.

"Very good Mister Yorkie! Most funny!"

At that point Sweety drifted back to our table.

In the afternoon we drove out to the Kanheri Caves north of the city. Wow! What a spectacle! Natural cave formations mingled with ancient rock carvings and shrines. Hindu chanting echoed through the chambers and the still air hung heavy with the aromas of incense and candlewax. It was another place that Sweety had never visited before. She clung to my arm for security as though far from her comfort zone.

We arrived back at The Hotel Kohinoor in the late afternoon. I paid Viraj handsomely and shook his hand as he shook his head from side to side in that curious Indian manner. 

"Nice meeting you Mr Yorkie!"

And he drove off into the endless traffic jam as Sweety Patel and I waved him goodbye.

Up in my room, I needed to deposit something most unsavoury in the lavatory bowl. I will save you the details.When I emerged from the en-suite, Sweety Patel was half undressed. She had also pulled the curtains across and thrown back the bed sheets.

"What? What the hell's going on?" I exclaimed.

She sidled up to me and whispered, "Now we go jiggy jiggy Mr Pudinge?"

There was another whelk-like kiss which again I pulled away from with admittedly a soupcon of regret. My morality held me back like leather reins on a bronco.The penny was starting to drop. She wasn't a tourist guide after all. She wasn't the type of escort I had naively anticipated.

"Get off me Sweety! I'm old enough to be your father! No! Your grandfather!"

Tears welled in her dark eyes and she sank onto the bed in despair, her face buried in her hands. 

"You don't liking me sahib? Achetbir give no money!" and she sobbed like a child.

She was so distraught that I sat beside her and tried my best to comfort her.  Gradually, the tears and the sobbing subsided and through her distress her story began to emerge.

She belonged to one of the lowest Hindu castes of all and had become an "escort" or what most people would call a prostitute in order to subsidise her family. Achetbir had requisitioned her when she was just fourteen years old so she had been "escorting" for almost seven years. The money had also allowed her to take up a college course, learning English and I.T skills. 

"I want to work in call centre Mr Pudinge. I so sick of men. Like pigs,"  and she imitated the sound of a grunting hog which made us both chuckle.

I told Sweety to get her clothes back on and insisted that I would accompany her on her journey home. She seemed horrified but I was adamant.

At Lokhandwala with The Patels' shack in the middle

Over an hour later our taxi arrived in the Lokhandwala district. There were tall, modern apartment buildings but the taxi dropped us near what appeared to be a vast shanty town of  tin and plywood and cardboard huts all squashed chaotically together.

Sweety tried to rebuff me but once again I insisted that I would lead her right back to her home. We delved into the malodorous shanty town with its barking dogs and small children wailing and thin men sitting on overturned oil tins and tyres. It was a veritable maze.

And then we arrived at Sweety's place. It was one of the better shacks on the alley with a new tin roof  and the ground outside neatly swept. 

Inside, her parents were startled to see us. I doubted that Sweety had ever brought one of her clients back home before. I shook hands with her mother and her father who was lying on a day bed. He had only one leg and there were crutches close to hand. Her parents didn't speak a word of English.

Standing upon an old wooden dresser there was an ornate statuette of the elephant god - Ganesh. Incense burned amongst orange blossoms and I also noticed framed photographs of Sweety's siblings. She was the youngest.

Though Mr and Mrs Patel looked much older than me they were in fact younger. Sweety explained that her father had lost his leg in a road accident and could no longer work.  Her mother's face sparkled with the joy of life even though she lived in a slum. The lines on her face spoke of laughter and contentment.

It was clear that Sweety's escort income had been vital to this family's survival though she explained that pimps like Mr Singh always helped themselves to the largest slice of the cake. 

"He take money for clothing and cosmetic," she said. "He take money for taxi."

Outside, another Bombay night was merging with the shadows of the slum. Somewhere a radio was playing "Bohemian Rhapsody". I bid Sweety's parents farewell and she "escorted" me back through the maze to the main road. 

As we waited for a passing taxi, I told Sweety that she deserved a medal for supporting her family in the way she did. It wasn't my place to deride her for her demeaning escort work though I encouraged her to keep up her college course and get a job in a call centre. It was an achievable dream.

Just then a white Suzuki Swift pulled up beside us. It was Mr Singh but his golden tooth was not glinting any more. He said some angry words in Hindi and reluctantly Sweety began to climb in the back. She was visibly trembling.

"But I paid for twenty four hours!" I yelled, reaching through the driver's window and grabbing Mr Singh's face with both hands added. "You little shit!"

Like a dog, Singh tried to bite me and then he put his foot down and the car zoomed off sending me reeling back onto the side of the road. Sweety waved through the rear window and I never saw her again.

Twelve hours later I boarded my flight home determined to never again respond to a scam escort advertisement in the blogosphere. But I was also thinking about Sweety Patel and her parents and what I might have done to help them, later reminding myself that their situation was by no means unique. Nevertheless, at least I had at last visited Mumbai and stood before The Gateway of India as my parents and had done in the summer of 1942.  Another item ticked off my bucket list.

THE END