Dog Day Afternoon

The poor defenceless squirrel that I ran down a few weeks ago must be smiling down on me this very day as I have just narrowly missed running over a small, muscular black dog around the corner from the house. It was a friday drive home from the office. Thoughts of a baked potato with salad and cheese, perhaps a lean lamb chop or whatever number of chops were on special offer at the petrol station mini market and a large glass of wine were foremost. I was attentive at the busy mini roundabout at the bottom of the street and traffic was light so I had a clear run up past the cemetery half noting the scaffolding around the Pease family mausoleum. There was the usual double parking around the Roman Catholic Church so I was proceeding at a speed well below the 30mph limit when this bullet trajectory of a dog ran straight out from the right hand pavement, into the road and disappeared out of my sight below the bonnet level. I stamped on the brakes and stopped almost instantaneously. I anticipated at absolute minimum, a  thud and yelp from the dog and traumatised screams from the small group of children at the road junction. Next best expectation, a thud and sound of splintering plastic spoiler and bumper. I got neither. No sound but also no visual of the dog. Pulling over and straddling someones driveway I jumped out to investigate. Very confusing as there were now two black dogs of the same breed looking at me. Surely I had not separated conjoined twins. I was reluctant to approach the scruffier of the dogs as this was the reckless stray and a Staffordshire breed. Short stocky body, huge head and the sort of jaws that could cause quite a bit of damage to soft tissue or amusement in the A&E Department if still physically attached and dangling from your own dangling bits. The lady owner of the other and leashed Staffie was quick to restrain the unleashed twin, if only to prevent conflict or injury to her own cared for pet. A handbag strap was quickly adapted as a lead. It required a joint effort to calm and placate the pocket rocket castrater in order to untangle the dog-bone shaped ID Tag attached to the studded leather collar. Reading the small print of the telephone number was made more difficult by the excitable nature of the dog although the combined attention of now a group of 6 adults and children helped to make him feel loved and wanted. I had to scribble down the mobile number from the tag before getting a voicemail upon dialling. The owner quickly returned the call and within a couple of minutes the family pet was retrieved, thankfully no worse off for the experience.  As I carefully pulled out onto the roadway I double checked my mirror. I cannot be sure but there appeared to be the distinct flourish of a bushy squirrel tail, albeit a bit squashed and bedraggled disappearing up a  nearby tree.

Mere Indulgence

Over the last 3 days, and bearing in mind we are nearly in October, the weather has been astounding recorded at  27.5 degrees centigrade even at as late as 5pm. I don't know if this is just an anomaly as a) the world climate shifts to counter global warming,b) the solar flares expected for 2014 are already happening, c) the Mayans prediction of the end of the world for 2012 is early or d) it's just a spike in temperatures prior to the onset of the next Ice Age. I am holding fire on whether to adopt the following actions. (paragraph lettering as above applies). a) buy a grapevine and a hot tub. b) Dig a large underground complex in the back garden and panic buy essentials. c) Cancel all standing orders and direct debits and let Barclays Bank know what I really feel about them d) order large supplies of rock salt and a dog sled team. Regardless of what actually transpires I have one major regret that, this year, and for the first time in many years I have not hired a boat on Hornsea Mere and rowed out to and around Shit Island.
Hornsea Mere is a wonderful stretch of water. Here's the A level geography explanation. It is Yorkshire's largest natural lake and an inheritance of glacial activity many millenia ago. It is a striking feature and a haven for fish and wildlife. On the other hand, Shit Island is ,in the words of someone who did A level geography, a pile of kak deposited over many years by roosting and nesting birds.Canada Geese in particular have attempted to form a new land mass in the name of that former colony. It is a smelly feature and a bit of a toilet for wildlife. The Mere does represent a challenge though. I am reluctant to hire a boat for longer than one hour and through initially calm but increasingly frantic rowing it is possible to complete a circumnavigation of the island well within the tariff of £4. The booking office forms part of the low timber sheds of the combined boatyard and cafe at the eastern end of the Mere. I think the operation has been a family business for many years and although producing a sustainable income for at least 3 current generations there has been little inward investment. This is not a Dragons Den criticism. In fact it would be an interesting sociological experiment to maroon the current Dragons on Shit Island and see how long it would take them to establish a chain of office supply shops, casinos and health clubs, transport hub, telecommunications network and whatever that rather dour, sour faced lady dragon does for her beans. The charm of the place is the lack of change and progress. The boats are in sturdy hand crafted wood with a deep varnished hue. They are all named after sea-birds or flowering plants in copper plate lettering. They seat 4 persons normally or a large family of eight from  Leeds as long as they have been weighed and evenly distributed over the bow, amidships and stern seat benching. As a concession to safety all crew and passengers are given life jackets although these appear to have been salvaged from the last vessel that went down off Hornsea beach in 1915. The brief safety brief consists of 'stay in the boat and don't touch anything that could bite or looks dead' , also ' do not attempt to make a landing on Bird Island (their rather extravagant name for you know where) and ' on no account try to re-enact the antics of Di Caprio and Winslet without relocating Grandma to the stern seat for ballast' . It is a bit tricky getting aboard the boats from the rickety jetty but you are comforted by the fact that the bottom of the lake is clearly visible even some 20 feet out from the shore. Throughout the £4 passage the lake bed is actually almost always in sight where not obscured by a thick and evil matting of weeds, floating eiderdown and feathers from moulting fowl and seasonal poisonous algae. The oars are rough hewn boughs but worn smooth by the sweaty hands of labouring visitors or frequent periods in the water if lost during a momentary lack of concentration by designated oars persons, thrown at rampaging swans or menacing Pike or where courting couples attempt to join the Hornsea Mere equivalent of the mile high club known as the two foot above sea level club. I think that rowing a boat should form a compulsory element in education not just for exercise and health benefits but to develop co-ordination and teamwork. This would have very obvious longer term benefits for those living in areas at risk from coastal, alluvial and pluvial flooding which, frankly, includes much of the populated areas through East Yorkshire. I am not advocating that the Air Sea Rescue helicopter is mothballed as my master strategy for self-rescue would only apply to currently inland but 'at risk' areas. There is a point in the one hour boat hire when a decision must be made to turn back. If the whole reason for expending £4 is not acheived then there is sadness and blame becomes apportioned on those in control of the oars or navigation. I have seen many mutinies amongst those previously enjoying the waters, a few court marital enquiries but no keel hauling, the latter only because that sort of disciplinary practice is now frowned upon in polite company. On the return and surrender of the boat there is a great sense of well-being which far outweighs any residual dampness to clothing  or disappointment in rowing prowess amongst us menfolk. I always promise to come back soon. This year has been the exception and I will be sure to address this next season. If the weather holds out as per the current phenomena I may keep Boxing Day afternoon free.

Blogged up knows

It is with some sense of pride and acheivement that I have reached the milestone of my 50th blog ever.If I could track down my primary school teacher who said I would not really stick to any worthwhile thing I certainly would. No longstanding grudge there then. With Oscar speech aplomb I admit that getting to 50 has been a labour of love, mispellings and bad grammar and I apologise to those who have been offended by mixed tenses, misappropriation of commas, semi colons and  frequent use of -. I do not however place any blame on my parenthesis. I have many people to thank for getting me here and especially my 6 followers. Thank you Blogspot.com for flatteringly recording 7 followers although one of them is obvioulsy me. My family deserve credit for the initial encouragement to launch my blogography. Writing down nonsense, bad taste and politically incorrect notions have been therapeutic and to my family it means that whilst typing I am quiet and concentrated and therefore pretty harmless. From one to ten of my bloggings was quite difficult. I was unsure of myself at first and went for the usual rants and angst ridden text which looks mature but is quite juvenile really and always looking for a cheap laugh. Toddling along I got through the formative stages and then entered the blogging teens. Eleven to Nineteen were more of the style I was looking for. A bit observational, some self criticism, a lot about Volkswagens, spiders and animals that I have run over. Towards the upper teens some element of sophistication emerged and I announced to the blogersphere that I had two cafetieres and attended farmers markets.I believe that I lost a lot of readers because of these revelations. In my twenties the inevitable critics began to twitter that my material and inspiration was drying up or was becoming a bit predictable. I was in fact beginning to settle down and find my own style. I did want to be entertaining but also to exercise my own personal demons and in self analysis and regression to rid myself of bad things I have done in my life. I have trafficked in people by swopping a girlfirend in junior school for a packet of rainbow drops.(sorry Louise Smith). I think I may have killed my Gran's dog. I have ridden my bike on the pavement many times in breach of the law. I have not used the recycling bins appropriately. I eat whilst driving and am often distracted if the salt and pepper shakers roll under the seat.  Unfortunately by admitting to these things I have lost out on at least five blogs. In the blog thirties my reminiscence gene kicked in and I recalled times spent fishing, cycling and canoeing. Psychotherapists may attribute this to a past dreamlike state, a distant memory of Halcyon days but I think it is because I am now too lazy and fat to ever do these activities in any serious capacity. The canoe expedition to the source of the River Hull excepted.  Things slowed down in my blog forties and with  a noticeable middle age spread of subjects. I have however resisted being grumpy, judgemental and political which is quite remarkable as that is how I am in the non-blog world. I do prefer my blogself and feel it is more me, or at least how I could be if unfettered by the burdens of modern life. I have blatantly used the blog to make a record of family memories and this is a very rich source of experiences. If anyone wants to take out an injunction against publication of certain things I advise that you start proceedings now. You well know who I mean...................................
Reaching 50 blogs has not been easy. I have struggled to meet my self imposed discipline of at least one blog a day and I admit that I have sometimes considered the easy option of regurgitating current news topics ,slagging someone off, dissing others or posting a photograph (that I do have) of cloud shapes over Drax Power Station resembling Godzilla humping. (requests by e mail only. High Res jpeg).

In conclusion blogging has been difficult and hard work particularly where any original creativity has been bludgeoned out by modern life, pressures and conformity. It has however been very enjoyable for me. I have no grudges with the aadvarks because as Spike Milligans most unsuccessful joke goes...."aadvarks never killed anyone"

Bonkers Conkers

I have been both disturbed and distressed by the disease of bleeding canker which is currently attacking the magnificent canopied horse chestnut trees throughout the country. I saw one sorry case in the front garden of a posh house in Newland Park. It looked as though the elbow of the main trunk divide had been painted with bitumastic but in fact the disgusting black morass was organic and septic, the equivalent of blood poisoning in humans. I remembered this terminal case after almost falling over from stepping on a newly fallen conker in the street earlier today. It would be a very sad day if the horse chestnut disappeared from our streetscapes, parks and broadleaved woods. Saying that, I don't think this species is as appreciated as much now as it was 'back in the day'. I remember, as a child, the excitement of the conker season approaching and the increasing levels of guile and cunning that were required to source a supply away from the most accessible and visible trees.There was a good run in to the season announced by the flowering of the candle shaped shoots amongst the greenery. Some parents were shameful in their quest for conkers. Many of the most well endowed trees were blatantly vandalised by the practice of almost factory farming. This usually entailed the hurling of a large branch or other dense object into the canopy of the tree and hoping it would displace or sever the armoured shells. This was even before the conkers had reached maturity. The other method was equally terrible. This involved violently shaking the branches and smaller boughs until they gave up and themselves fell to the ground or reluctantly gave up their prizes.The mostly dual onslaught left the trees looking as though they had been through an artillery barrage. The folklore and myth around the sport of conkers is rich and confusing. I spent many hours boiling my conkers in vinegar which was reputed to make them as hard as a ball bearing. As much time again was spent on careful drilling and stringing ready for the competition of the school playground. This stage of preparation usually involved gross misuse of hand tools including a brace and bit, workbench vice and any long sharp objects to push through the knot-ended twine. State Primary Schools, seeing an increase in conker related injuries and conker induced crime, soon enforced a blanket ban within their grounds. Consequently the sport went underground for many years before dying out against competition from clackers, the swopping of Pokemon cards and kiss catch. The variety of conker shapes was also interesting but the spiny green shells did not hint at whether their contents were of a superbly proportioned all-conquering example, a weedy half grown and half white one or, curse upon curse - a cheeser. This was a half rounded fully grown end but with a smooth flat face and of no use to anyone. This element of chance in the scramble for fallen shells was as exciting as having the niner, tenner or elevenser or more following a free milk crazed lunchtime orgy of conker fighting that was the late autumn sport in the junior schools of England.

Rap for Alice's new city bike

To be read in rap rhythm and with attitude.....

It's made of metal and it's suitable for pedalling,
It should be sound if no one's been meddling
with the cranks and the chain and height of the seat.
The basket on the front should look real neat
as well as being handy for the transport of shopping
how are the brakes for the purposes of stopping?

You should give it a name, is it a he or a she?
How many gears? in York, you'll need just three
First gear for setting off down  long Lowther Street
Second gear for chasing buses and of course to cheat
on traffic jams, they're bad  but you won't be late
Third gear is the very best for cruising Goodramgate

Keep those tyres pumped up to optimum pressure
Buy a sound trendy helmet to protect our Treasure
You'll soon get the hang of legs as pistons
Can you paint the bike in the colours of Cath Kidston?
You might need a mirror, lights, dust mask and a visor
Be confident and sure, no need for stabilisers

There may not be a hedge to catch you if you fall
Don't worry if you wobble, it happens to us all
as we find our way around on a new set of wheels
Not very different from your first pair of high heels.
When you ride be happy, it's no place for malice
Enjoy your purchase, a new bike for Alice

n.b.
alternative accents work well, try The Queen, Neil Kinnock
and Billy Connolly

Bridge to better days

The reigning Monarchs of England should know better than to schedule a visit to Hull during the month of July.

In that month in 1642 Charles 1st gave up his siege of the City after some 3 months of attempts to get hold of the reserves of ammuntion which will have served him and his Royalist supporters in their struggle to resist the Parliamentarians.

The City was a walled fortress at that time and could hold out under attack for many months. Charles had underestimated the resolve of its good citizens and soon gave up and concentrated his eventually futille efforts elsewhere in the country.

The part played by Hull in the early stages of the English Civil War, whilst critical, has long been relegated to a short introductory paragraphs in the history of the country. I have a sneaking suspicion that the ancestors of the ruling classes today still have it in for the City for daring to snub the Monarch. The short form name for the City has long since surpassed the grander title of Kingstown Upon Hull as though an insult, a four letter word.

In July 1981 a similar Royal snub took place but this has never to this day been revealed to the nation apart from a brief article in a school magazine of that time.

The engagement diary of Elizabeth the Second had an entry pencilled in for the 17th of the month.

This was to mark a fantastic British engineering feat by the official opening of the Humber Bridge, then the longest single span suspension bridge in the world (now relegated to about 5th).

The region was anticipating a great day of civic pride, not a day too soon, as the construction of the bridge had been a very prominent project in full view of the taxpayers for the previous 9 years. The manufacturers of union jack bunting had been working overtime and all manner of souvenirs from postcards to Doulton mugs were available free to dignatories but at full retail price to the main population.

The scene was set at the row of futuristic Toll booths for the Royal ceremony and with a large grandstand erected close to the similarly futuristic control room and adminstrative block. As the bridge was actually opened for traffic in the June the official area had been set up on the day before the arrival of the Queen.

As a sign of more innocent times there was little or no security on the roadway approach to the Toll booths on the 16th July.

This allowed a small group of sixth form students to overcome their teenage self consciousness and carry out their plot to steal the glory for the honour of opening the Humber Bridge.

Three of the group formed the advanced party, Dave Huzzard, whose name will be changed to Ted Huzzard to protect his identity wore his or his father's dress suit with trainers but less cumberbund. At booth number 1 at the cordoned off official area one of the students in the raiding party attached the end of a length of bunting to the building and walked across to hold the stretched line of flags taut. The third student officiously handed over a pair of round ended scissors to Dave, the Master of Ceremonies and with a few semi anarchistic words the deed was done.

The group skipped off nonchalantly ,very pleased with themselves but prepared in body and spirit for any backlash from the authorities. Transportation to the Colonies  had been a sanction in their minds for a treasonable act of this nature.

No one who witnessed the strange chain of events could really be bothered to raise any challenge. It may have been the case that the students were just one more group with the same intention who had visited the Bridge that very day.

Armchair Cyclist

The subject of cycling has crept into my daily thoughts. This usually happens in late september being nature's way of making me feel totally unfit and unmotivated. Although I may have the impulse to get out on my bike everything is against it, the weather, the nights drawing in, the prospect of having to strip down components if it rains during a jaunt, lack of trendy winter-gear and at least a hundred other hindrances. The tipping point between actually riding out and putting my road bike into hibernation is the Cycling World Championship , the last major event of the long competitive calendar. This years Elite Mens Race took place yesterday, sunday, on an undulating course around Copenhagen. The distance and average speed do hammer home the inadequacies of even the keenest, fast pedalling amateur or enthusiast. Nearly 6 hours racing over 155 miles at an average, yes, average of 26mph. This year all the ingredients and preparation made it the year for a British winner. The team were all on peak form having performed exceptionally well in the Tours of France and Spain during the summer months. It is rare enough to have your main men firing on all cylinders but the whole team in equal proportions made for something historic. Of course, as with all British competitors in any world competitions, it was won in the press and media before the actual start. I cynically envisage the tabloids having two completely contrasting stories for GB teams and individuals already in type either lauding them to the skies or completely burying them. The positive headline would state that Mark Cavendish, the current star and deservedly so on merit would  win a frantic bunch sprint but conditional on the whole team controlling the race from the start. The negative, that stardom, a glamour-model girlfriend and multi million pound contracts had caused Cav to forget his passion for cycling.
With this already heavy burden of expectation on the team I feared the worst with the TV feed of the last few laps of the race. There were a series of attempted escapes by glory hunters and a few big names but the GB team jerseys were prominent at the head of the main field chasing down any gaps and keeping the pace high to minimise any speculative breaks. A big crash split the 200 riders but the GB team, in their advanced position were clear and rolling. The mangled frames and buckled wheels trapped some of the favourites and they retired for a Danish pastry and bacon roll.
Alternate stints of eye ball popping effort were required as a minimum and the two year in the making strategy for this single race was working to plan. Unfortunately the other 25 national teams had other spoiling plans in support of their own riders. Tangerine Dutch, green and yellow Aussie, tricolour French, Vorsprung durch technic Germans , swarthy Spanish and the United Nations of cycling all had a go to disrupt the British high speed train. At just 1 mile to go there was a real prospect of a derailment. The arrowhead of the GB team at the head of the fast moving field disappeared from the first 20 places washed over by the teams who had effectively coasted and freewheeled for the previous 154 miles of the race . Cavendish had lost his escort and allies and the sprinters who had given him a hard time in the Tour de France fancied their chances. The Press got out their shovels . The team had sacrificed themselves for Cav and he was now on his own. 100 yards to the line of an uphill finish there was a lot of bumping,bouncing, leaning and shoving for position. The GB jersey that I thought was Cav sudenly swung out of contention in total exhaustion. I despaired, but  in the void of the slipstream was a diminuitive figure in black helmet and team colours. Cav had been dragged to the front by the last gasp of his teammates. In an explosion of muscle, sinew and national pride for someone whom the press regularly hung out to dry, Mark Cavendish won the World Championship. I was dancing, shouting and crying at the same time.

I briefly thought about getting my own bike out of the garage to re-enact the sprint finish but it threatened rain and William was close to serving up his famously delicious shepherds pie.

Ahead of the Race

Those who have only known me in more recent years may regard with surprise the fact that in 1984 I was at the peak of fitness and stamina as an athlete and racing cyclist.

I accept that my weight and girth now would probably buckle a lightweight bike frame and, yes, I did recently get overtaken by a small girl on a pink bike on my ascent of a steep hill but she did only come out of one driveway, pass me and then immediately go up the next so it doesn't count as full humiliation. I would have shouted something at her for inconsiderate cycling but I was either eating a mars bar or just a bit out of breath, I cannot clearly recollect which.

I was quite late into competitive cycling after being more of a runner and footballer, the catalyst being purchase of a Carlton Pro-Am 12 speed racing bike from the proceeds of a holiday job in 1981. A beautiful ice-white frame with good wheels and components within that price bracket. It did serve me well and was converted for cyclo-cross. My collection of bikes steadily grew with the 1982 custom built Langdale by Brian Green from Nottingham which is still in regular use, a Dave Marsh winter frame which saved me from serious injury in a head on crash with a car and oddments of bits of bikes which one day could be aggregated into something a bit special. No distance is too much for an athlete in prime condition and in 1984 I set off with my younger brother to stay with our sister who had an au-pair position just to the west of Paris. We caught the train from Hull to Dover and then rode the short distance to Newhaven for the ferry to Dieppe. Landfall in France was at 4am but in July the gloom and mist rapidly lifted and we were soon climbing out of the town heading south. Navigation relied on a Michelin map sheet covering from Edinburgh to Cannes so it took half a day to travel less than an inch which was a bit demoralising. Breakfast was at Rouen, I think, and I cannot today work out which route we took or hazard a guess at the actual mileage as compared to the linear distance scaled from the map. Some 12 hours later we reached our destination. We did split the return journey over 2 days using a much more suitably scaled roadmap. The trip coincided with the cycling fest which is the Tour de France and I was keen to see the race and my heroes namely Sean Kelly, Robert Millar, Bernard Hinault and Laurent Fignon amongst others. I crudely translated a french  guide to Le Tour and Stage 4 would be passing within reasonable cycling distance of where we were staying. For credibility I took off the panniers, racks and mudgards from my bike and wore my heavy, and subsequently wholly unsuitable, woollen club jersey which had Trent Valley CRC in large white flocked letters but with the core colours being akin to the French National colours. Again time elapsed and distance covered is now a faint memory and I have never attempted to locate where I eventually came across the stage route which from my now extended Tour library was from Bethune to Cergy Pontoise. None the wiser there. I was early enough to see the freakish caravan of publicity cars and promotional vehicles but was not handed any samples or merchandise as a) I was not a child b) I was obviously English in wholly unsuitable cycling apparel and c) I did not hold out my hands as I was dumbfounded to have acheived by objective of witnessing the race. Soon the official cars appeared down the long open country roads and the wining and dining crowds moved closer to the roadside. Behind a swarm of lead motorcycles and precariously mounted press photographers was a small cluster of 3 riders ,Barteau and Le Guillox , both French and cheered and applauded and the Portuguese Ferreira- cheered and tolerated. These riders contested the finish some 17 minutes ahead of the main peleton with Barteau retaining the yellow jersey well into the second week as a national hero. I readied my small 35mm camera for a series of rapid shots to record my attendance at the Tour. The main field of some 190 riders, not counted at the time, coasted past and I had time between shots to glimpse the imposing and influential  Hinault, the diminuitive figure of Millar and the bulk of Kelly. The flash of team colours, the sound of the racing tyres on the tarmac and the shockwave of embrocation fragranced air from the mass of cyclists I will never forget.
Back in my pitiful bedsit in Lincoln I viewed my photographs from the trip. The ferry, breakfast at Rouen, I think, bike rides and moped rides with my younger brother and sister, obligatory Eiffel Tower and Paris views, house where we stayed, a few local sights including Chartres Cathedral and some where I was evidently a bit drunk. The roadside photos of the race were very disappointing particulary as I had imagined magazine quality and posed shots. The 35mm camera was intended for stationary monuments and not to catch 30mph riders. The last photograph however made the whole trip most memorable. The clearest most dramatic picture was the money shot. I considered syndication to cycling magazines worldwide. I had the perfect photograph of the upper spectacle frame, forehead, blond locks and very distinctive trademark headband of my particular hero, Laurent Fignon. RIP 1960-2010.

Of Mice and Men

Mice are predictable and very much creatures of routine. That is why they have not really contributed much to world history apart from keeping knife wielding farmers wives busy, maintaining the lifestyle and income of Walt Disney and keeping men in a useful role in the house. The behaviour of mice also makes them quite easy to catch. For the following true story I have changed names and locations in order to disguise the fact.that it took place in my own house.
Mr Thompson was watching his Sony televison in his living room in Borrow Lane when something caught his eye just below the grate of the fireplace. A brief shadow, a smudge on the pale reconstituted stonework of the hearth. Then nothing. His attention returned to the broadcast briefly but something darted over the trailing  aerial cable and disappeared under the pine unit on which sat the television. A sharp tap on the side of the furniture caused the small mouse to retreat to the fireplace along the same route. During the course of the evening the mouse was persistent in reaching the dark space under the unit only to be startled back to the sanctuary of the fireplace, twice. Mr Thompson, satisfied that he had sufficiently terrorised the mouse into relocating to the quieter next door house, retired to bed. The next morning the attraction of the TV unit to the mouse was discovered. Somehow, over the Christmas period a small wrapped chocolate had become detached from the 'Past Times Scenes of Olde Yuletide' gift pack from a family friend. Whether actually 90% cocoa or not this foodsource had proven to be a huge temptation to the mouse, causing a twitching and longing which outweighed the natural timidity of the species. Mr Thompson thought he might have some sport and amusement at the mouse's expense and carefully tore open the corner of the chocolate tablet before returning it to the pine void. The evening was disappointing in the Thompson household with no sign of a demented chocolate addicted rodent. The following evening they went out. It was evident that the mouse had exploited the fact that the house was empty as there were small incisor marks, upon examination, through another corner of the packet with a mulch of wrapper and foil and a small tongue mark on the chocolate itself. Not enough of a taste to assuage the obsession. The mouse would certainly return. In readiness Mr Thompson searched high and low for the spring loaded trap but it was corroded and a bit stained from lending it to a neighbour with a bigger infestation problem or perception of such. A bait trap purchased from the hardware store was more of a long term measure and was discounted. The humane trap, operating on a pivot basis to shut the opening, was nowhere to be found. A bit of initiative was required but made so much easier by the predictable actions of the resident mouse. During the evening the equipment was readied. In the commercial break between the first half of Coronation Street the mouse made a dash for the chocolate and took refuge under the pine unit. Mr Thompson crept up to the chimney breast between the hearth and TV and opened up a black polythene bin bag. The rubble grade bag could be formed into a funnel without recourse to sellotape or duct tape tags to the decor and the bottom section flattened out to form a ramp. There was a small clear section of carpet between the mouth of the bag and the plinth of the base unit. Standing back, Mr Thompson took a 7 iron golf club and inserted it between the pine unit and the far side external wall. With a sharp tap the startled mouse ran out onto the clear carpet but faced with the black hole of the bag immediately backtracked to its hide. A minute passed and another strike with the club and the mouse, weighing up its options, decided that the unknown in the bag was preferable to the cacophony of the noise. Mr Thompson showed great agility in darting across the room and lifting up the bag with the small furry object unable to prevent a slip-slide to the bottom seam. With fist gripping the bag the neck was taped up tightly and with golf club in hand Mr Thompson strode out of the house, jumped into his car and drove off.
The journey to the town of Beverley was uneventful for man and mouse. The former was very pleased with the capture, the latter had never been in a motor vehicle before and was puzzled by the motion and noise in the darkness. The same metallic sound which had forced the mouse into the trap could be heard amongst the engine hum. Mr Thompson momentarily moved the golf club to stop it oscillating against the door cill. At the top of the most affleunt street in the town on the wide open space of the Common, with bag and club in hand the fate of the mouse was sealed.
It was released to the promise of ample chocolate treats and rich pickings amongst the wealthy households of the town. In celebration of his self professed good deed and secret strike for the oppressed, and in the fading evening light, Mr Thompson dropped his second hand golf ball onto the grass and wacked it in a westerly direction to try to reach the local landmark of the Black Mill in under 14 strokes. Somehow, he was certain that a new personal best was on the cards.

Bridge over muddied waters

I have a favourite building in Kingston upon Hull. It comes into sight quickly as you drive through the industrial areas just to the north east of the city centre on a stretch of road running close and paralell to the River Hull. The Wilmington Bridge http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:NER_Wilmington_Bridge.jpg is a fine surviving example of industrial design. Built in 1907 it formed an important railway crossing of the river under the operation of the North East Railway and was active until 1968 in this strategic role.The crossing point had an earlier bridge under North Midland Railways and ran through to the Victoria Dock for coal and timber mainly but will also have carried excited trippers and tired residents to and from genteel Hornsea on the coast. Where preserved these rail line corridors now form part of the network of cycleways and pedestrian shortcuts that in Hull and as in most large urban areas have made use of the former routes of long ripped up rail freight and uneconomic passenger lines. The bridge is striking on two main features. The business end of the structure is a deep sided swing bridge retaining its ox-blood red metal painted finish. Wide enough for two rail lines it has its pivot on a caisson in the river just off the east bank and over time the inner part of wooden pier which narrows the river at this point has become silted up and self seeded as a permanent feature. In function the red-oxide structure is not remarkable but the bridgemasters accommodation mounted across the highest point is a wonder to behold and a fine example of where architecture far exceeds the actual design brief . Under a hipped lead-dressed roof the cream painted timber walls have large areas of small paned windows giving a full panoramic outlook. This gives the appearance of more of a conservatory or orangery than a control room. I can verify that on passing the bridge in late summer there are tomato plants heaving with fruits that can be seen through the west side windows. The north elevation has a small bow window and walkways to the exterior have a balustrade which would be ideal for sitting out and sun worshipping if not contravening railway regulations of the period. A hot house in the warmer seasonal months and likely to be bitterley cold in the exposed elevated position but railwaymen are never far away from a coal fire and the edwardian chimney pots show longstanding blackening from regular use for warmth or a brew-up. The river does carry infrequent shipping and the bridge must still be maintained in an operational capacity but I am ashamed to say that I have never seen it in the open position since moving to the area in 1979.

Science of Appliance

The large shipping containers, up at the Civic Tip, allocated for electrical appliances are usually full to capacity and citizens laded with all manner of white and other goods often have to wait for the replacement container to be dragged into position before they are relieved. This regular observation led me to conduct an audit of appliances and their usefulness in my own kitchen with the following conclusions;
1) Smoothie maker. Nice looking thing, plasticised mock chrome so sits well with the toaster and kettle. I like the idea of being a smoothie man but frankly the whole performance of production of half a beaker of pithy, pippy dense fruit compote far outweighs any spiritual or health benefits of the actual , is it beverage or food? Since purchase with Christmas Vouchers about 3 years ago it has rarely been used but for eye candy and culinary credibility it will remain as an ornament.
2) Coffee bean grinder. Clean lines, satisfyingly loud and abrasive noise when it was operated but I cut off the plug for re-assignment some time ago and the small appliance gathers dust or can be used for the storage of screws and fixings in between jobs. Nice thought from the giver but again too much hassle versus a level teaspoon of instant coffee or pre-ground.
3) Electric Hand Whisk. A frippery, a luxury that has no place in the world of man. There is no more satisfying job in the kitchen than aggressive use of a standard wire wisk or the older turn-handle type. Furthermore, licking the latter with choccy cake mix or similar sweets is a pleasure - try to same with the electric version and say goodbye to your tongue and tonsils.
4) Mincer. This is a family heirloom and will have been in everyday use up to the 1960's. The heavy casting is bolted to a worktop or table with a clamp ready for insertion of old meat which is pulverised and then forced out like a play-doh hairstyle. Everything can be minced. No doubt a feared tool in the arsenal of a mobster although they would certainly need a lot of time on their hands to feed in a whole body.
5) Bread Maker. Looks like what Homer Simpson pulls the radioactive rods out of on the opening titles. There is no romanticism or mysticism over the use of a bread machine. Just chuck in the contents of the bag of mix, add water, check settings and then go out for the day. I used to enjoy the manual task of making bread from scratch especially as it was a really good way of getting the dirt out from under fingernails.
6) Slo-cooker. This is indispensable in the period October to March for all things stewie and hot-pottie. A real must for the well organised working family. Pack it full of browned meats, fresh veg, some marmite lashings and for the last hour crank it up for the suet dumplings. The downside is that it takes some effort to clean but well worth the sumptious feast that feels like someone else has done the whole thing for you.

I am not planning a trip to the tip this weekend but if I needed to fill up the space in the car I would certainly not hesitate in dumping that smoothie maker or perhaps try and feed the unwanted items into the cast iron mincer and see what happens, sparks and all.

Groat Expectations

The Foreshore of the Humber at Hessle was where I found a silver groat from the reign of Edward III 1327-1377. The wide strip at low tide had offered up many interesting things over the years including a very useful tool for lifting up drain covers and the cap badge from a railwaymans hat. On a day to day observational basis the foreshore changed dramatically. After a high tide or stormy season the rocky and pebbled base had a thick deposited mass of mucky and smelly mud making foraging, dog walking and manoevring a double tandem buggy quite an assault course. In calmer weather the same surface was clear, bright chalk and with only small areas of trapped clay giving an impression from the shore path of an icy landscape interspersed with deep water. Standing at the edge of the river at low tide and looking back to the bank emphasised the strength and power of the river course with the difference in levels being more than 20 feet. I have read that the Humber in fact is responsible for draining one fifth of the country including the arterial rivers of the Trent, Ouse and Derwent with, in addition, numerous smaller tributaries (I must check the accuracy of this terminology with the gent at Starbucks), man made land drains and a few and now redundant canals. Prior to the creation of a deep navigation channel up the river to the Port of Goole it was possible to walk across the mile wide river at very low tide and my wife's grandmother did this in her lifetime with no drysuit, safety boat and no more specialist equipment than perhaps a ham sandwich.  In Roman Times the river was a crossing point from the Ermine Street up to the major regional centre of York either on foot or, for the wealthy or important, by ferryboat. My groat find was on a still day following a dry spell and the coin was just sat on a patch of mud as though it had fallen out of a noblemans pocket or lost in a toss of chance over a matter of life or death which, frankly, were the two main career options of the 14th Century, if you ignore plague victim. (I can't remember if I took the precaution of washing the coin when I got it home but germs find little incubation potential on silver-don't they?) The hammered impressions on the head and tail  were clearly visible with a head and shoulders figure holding a rod and sceptre and on the reverse a motif with wording. The edges of the coin were worn and smooth but to be expected after well over 600 years of immersion and with only the latter 40 years exposed to acid rain influences. I was thrilled and excited by the remarkable discovery. Best artefact yet from the river although the drain lifting rod is in almost everyday use for work and if I had to choose between the two I am embarrassed to say that the tool would win. I bored my family with subsequent research facts on the monarch during a dramatic period of history and upheaval for the country. They sincerely hoped that I did not find anything actually interesting, larger or older than 14th century loose change. The coin has for many years been wrapped in tissue in an old ring box and has been moved around various locations in the house from desk drawers to under-sink key tin. It comes out for 'show and tell' if we have visitors who politley squint at the markings and decline to handle after my description of a potentially plaque blistered traveller alighting at Hessle before carrying on his journey, getting mugged or just dropping dead from disease and fatigue. The coin now sits in the same wrappings in the house safe. I have not listed it on my assets yet but when the price on E-Bay exceeds £20 sterling I will be sure to take additional steps to safeguard my children's inheritance.

Up the Creek

A 23 foot long through lounge may have been top of the wish list for aspiring homeowners in the 1970's but for my Father it afforded an opportunity to build a canoe in the rear 11 feet whilst still retaining the front 12 feet, with settee, pouffe, coffee table and TV aerial socket for family use. My Mother may have agreed to the idea prior to the commencement of the project but had she known that canoe launch day did not actually take place for another 2 years she may have had a different view. The canoe was in kit form through Ottersports and arrived in a very large box like an oversized Airfix. The particular model was entirely in wood and must have been marine ply or laminated . The parts forming the hull had to be glued, taped and carefully pinned in position and some evenings and some weekends when not attending to family responsibilities my Father did a little bit more work on the single seater. On finer days the work took place on the patio with the superstructure, bows and cockpit taking shape al fresco. The lounge carpet held up well on inclement working days.My parents, then in their early forties , had Keeping fit Commando Style on cassette and the same rear section of the lounge doubled up as a gym. This was apt as many of the exercises around the assembly line took on the apperance of training for an amphibious assault. Progress with the wooden torpedo was slow and my Mother took us kids off for a week after matrimonial relations became strained over the prolonged project. I often thought that the all-pervading smell of varnish in the later stages may have contributed to behaviour otherwise totally out of character for a loving couple. It was a very proud day for my Father when the completed canoe was loaded onto the VW roofrack as part of the mass transit that was the Thomson's going on holiday- estate car, boat, caravan, 5 children, overflow tents and chemical toilet, in fact all the trappings. On it's maiden voyage what a machine the canoe was. The steeply raked hull made for a very fast speed through the Scottish Loch but on the downside this was accompanied by considerable instability. A bit like simulated white water but on a glassy smooth body of water. I seem to remember initial enthusiasm from us kids for a paddle but second requests were not forthcoming and we busied ourselves with looking for fish, bleached sheeps bones and following severed fishing lines to find abandoned spinners and lures stuck in the rocky floor of the shallows of the Loch. I must have put 'Experienced with watersports' on my CV as I soon found myself being pushed headfirst into a fibre glass canoe at Scouts in order to resin together the moulded hull and deck. A very unpleasant task indeed and only bearable for a few minutes and probably outlawed now in all but the farthest east sweat-shops. Was it my experience or as I suspect that I was undersized for my age and ideally suited to the fume laden , runny eyes and wheezy chest operation in the narrow confines only intended for the canoeists legs. A bit later on my Father acquired another canoe - an open deck Canadian version for expeditions up river but it was just too heavy to be even lifted near a roof rack and I am not sure now that it ever had a christening under our ownership. I am still fascinated by all things canoe and recently marvelled at a metal hulled Grumman canoe on the canal at North Frodingham. A flat bottomed tourer in which the elderly owner regularly took his grandchildren and dogs up river for hours on end with no jeopardy or instability even with an unruly and inquisitive crew. I have some intentions to one day canoe the full navigable length of the River Hull from the Tidal Barrier to its deep set source in the hinterland. My wife has expressed some concerns but it's not as if I'm going to disappear off the coast of Hartlepool and turn up in Panama. There is to my knowledge no direct route from the Horsewash to South America - or is it there to be discovered..........?

Man for all seasons

I accept that I would make a very interesting Case Study for a psychiatrist but I am not embarrassed or ashamed about my life and times with Action Man. I can recall vividly, at the age of 7,  the excitement of opening up a Christmas present, an elongated box containing my first poseable figure. 1970 was a great time to start a relationship with Action Man, times of pre-political correctness of warmongering or gender specific toys for children and with a fantastic range of militaristic and aggressive outfits. Having forgotten the misery of the actual tournament in Mexico in the summer I was thrilled with an England World Cup kit consisting of trackie top with football transfer (easily rubbed off), shorts, shirt with plastic Three Lions motif, white knee length socks, smelly plastic boots and a very brittle ball. Action man could, with obvious assistance from me, scissor kick, volley, back-heel, dive full length for a scoring header and imitate the stars of the day. I understand that the current version is able to mouth obscenities, simulate diving, clutch goolies in a defensive manner and simultaneously fight in a night club and read a Bentley brochure. The footie kit was mainly leisure and casual wear and for more formal events I had the full Lifeguard Cavalry outfit including shiny breastplate and another brittle piece of plastic as a full sword and scabbard.The horse however was out of my range and was the closest I got was but a snotty nose mark on the toy shop window.  The most impressive outfit was the deep sea diver with authentic dry suit, lead boots (pre-Alzheimer prominence), and helmet with an air line so that Action Man could also enjoy bath time albeit in 6 inches of bubble bath murky water. I was devastated when ,after a family trip out in my dad's VW camper van, I could not find my toy and convinced that he had fallen out on Newmarket Heath I resigned myself to a prolonged period of mourning. A suitable time to establish a memorial to the unknown soldier, football player and deep sea hero. It must have been some considerable months later that, exploring the deep cushions in the VW I found my friend. A bit rheumatic to his awkward pin joints, his cheek scar a bit paler and his short cropped hair a bit mildewy but no doubt no worse off for the sorry experience. In due course the Action Man moved on to the big toy box in the attic but my younger brothers were later able to fulfill his ambition of being a commander in charge of a scorpion  tank and at long last, riding that horse in what remained of his proud cavalry uniform. In modern times the standard figure has been treated with disdain and dumbed down. What was the point of giving him 'eagle eyes' or gripping hands and the current range, already dressed in vacuum moulded clothes takes away all form of imagination and dressing up potential. I said goodbye to Action Man one summer holiday in Cornwall. My boys toy was a product endorsed kite with a parachute clad figure who shot up the twine and released just below the top to float slowly down in fully deployed canopy. This worked  well for much of the vacation until a freak wind sent the baling out figure high up onto the cliif face. I could not retrieve Action Man and I like to think that to this day he has established a network of tunnels and observation points to consolidate the coastal defence of this country and to get a good glimpse of Barbie and friends sunbathing topless on the beach. Action Man in name and by nature.

Sound the All Clear

Fitted with a brightly painted ,close-boarded wooden door a second world war reinforced concrete bomb shelter makes a lovely garden shed. That is conditional however on requiring to fit any items over 80cm wide through the aperture which was only intended to facilitate entry for those on an austere wartime diet and with the catalyst of the warm flames of  an incendiary bomb licking their nether regions The back-gardens of Hull still retain a good number of the concrete cuboid structures. This is not in any way because of their versatility, of being pleasing to the eye or just downright useful. The sole reason for their stubborn survival is that they are too difficult to get rid of. Not surprising really based on the initial design brief to protect the citizens of Hull or what was referred to as the anonymous 'East Coast Town'. When I first moved to Hull in the late 1970's there was a determined effort by homeowners to clear the concrete block-houses. Part of the same revolutionary movement to create through lounges and remove chimney breasts. Many had sunk into the soft clay soils of the city, others were listing seriously from the partial failure of the same ground conditions, a few were dens of immoral or illegal purpose and the rest overgrown, stopped up or serving as an emergency toilet for the poorly organised. Unfortunately for two inheritors of the shelters they met their end through adopting equally mad cap methods of demolition. No doubt the seed of an idea for the best methods to remove the immoveable mass was sown in a pub, or on the bus or in the smoking room at work. Probably seemed like a good idea at the time but with the luxury of 40 years of hindsight I do not ever recall seeing any glowing endorsements on the following;
Method 1; The Theory; Stand inside the shelter and sledgehammer out the concrete walls. The Practice; The supporting walls for the 5 ton roof are sufficiently weakened to cause collapse. The Outcome; Death and  a considerable pile of debris for surviving loved ones to filter through.
Method 2. The Theory. Build a huge fire inside the shelter and when raging block up the sole aperture. The Practice. The reinforcement in the concrete heats up and explodes in a huge release of dense materials. The Outcome. Death but a pile of considerably smaller sized debris for loved ones to filter through.
It will only take one positive comment on a bomb shelter from Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop to make them the next best thing  for discerning homeowners. I expect Estate Agents will then wax lyrical on the post-war- industrialistic-retro-chic- cubes in order to secure a buyer. It will not be long before imitation bomb shelters will be available in authentic reconstituted concrete, an olde worlde yorkstone version, shiplap cladding and upvc profiles and available on a drive-away basis from all leading DIY outlets. One concession for such items for the residents of Hull would of course be an ability to float.

Is the Highway Code out of date?

I have fallen back into love with Loretta, my racing bike. It's been a difficult few months with time required for family, home and business matters that may otherwise have been allocated for two wheel leisure and pleasure. I have not been fully detached from the sport of cycling having hugged the same tree for 16 hours over 2 days whilst marshalling at the mountain bike world cup in Dalby Forest and helping out by driving officials at the East Yorkshire Classic. My own cycling history only really started seriously in 1979 but I have seen wonderful photographs of the halcyon days of cycling in the inter war and immediate post war periods with hordes of tourers engaged in mass jaunts out to the seaside, beauty spots or a well frequented cafe. Confronting a motor vehicle or a traffic signal will have been a rarity. On this theme I have compiled a short list of modern day hazards for the serious, leisure and occasional cyclist. It is necessary to make full allowance for the factors of traffic, daft cycle lanes, parked and parking vehicles, loose dogs, stupid pedestrians, gals on hosses, litter, garden debris fallen from trailers, drinks cans, broken glass, potholes, displaced drain grates, grooves in the tarmac from trailing exhaust pipes, bits of rubber from lorry tyres, sleeping drunks, chewing gum, puddles deeper than they appear, anything liquid, passengers with water pistols or spraying other dubious fluids, drunken or drug crazed motorists, audi and bmw owners, inattentive police and emergency vehicles, white vans, drivers using the phone whilst on the move, ugly children waving , cars with illegal tinted glass (usually on account of same ugly children), old men on electric bikes, youffs on mopeds, large bottomed ladies on small saddles, fat men on lightweight frames, crocodiles of children and large very pedestrian families, sightseers and tourists, people messing with pelican crossings, traffic light and junction jumpers, piles of chippings, freshly melted tar, newly painted road markings, roadworks, possessed traffic cones, hedge trimmings swept into the gutter by lazy gardeners, Council grass cutting equipment driven as though a go-kart, machines vacuuming out gullies, abusive fellow road users, parents with buggies, Lucy Atwell characters chasing a coloured balloon, adolescents throwing bricks off overhead bridges, swarms of flies, a wasp in between hair and helmet, agricultural odours, people looking for the farmers market, newspaper boys and girls on their little brothers bike, suspicious scruffy looking groups of young men on suspiciously smart and expensive bikes, women putting on make-up whilst mobile, unannounced three point or U turns, those relying on the 1974 version of the Readers Digest Book of the Road, members of the National Trust in a Conservation Area, roadside and pavement vendors, garage sale signs, yellow planning notices on lampposts, classic car drivers looking for their Werthers Originals in the glovebox. You will be faced with one or more of the above at least every 100 metres. Still, there is no better feeling of freedom than when on your bike with not a care in the world.

Store Wars in a High Street near you

In a High Street far, far away.........
I have seen something very upsetting and disturbing today and it has led me to undertake a complete stocktake of my life and understanding of the galaxy. I have yet to discuss with my son what we witnessed but I could see that he too was aware of a great disturbance in the pedestrianised areas of York. On our return home he disappeared into his room and I could hear the fzzuzz as he fired up his lightsabre followed by what sounded like sobbing and blubbing. Emotional about the whole thing he was. Well, I can now, on reflection, appreciate what the whole unrest and ugly incident was all about. A Stormtrooper, a single Stormtrooper had been lured away from his post outside the HMV store by a group of teenagers. I heard, secondhand, that the youths had made comments that The Battle for Hoth was nothing to do with the UK and we should not have supported the conflict. The trooper, whilst not involved in that war zone had lost some comrades in that icy wilderness and was understandably aggrieved at the taunts. The youths had not probably progressed beyond Cub Scouts and were not justified in their position. I sit on the fence on the issue unless oil and gas reserves are found under the glaciers and rocky pinnacles of Hoth. The trap was set and outside the Monsoon Store and adjacent to a Next outlet the combination of stress and a build up of carbon dioxide in that rather plasticky uniform formed the catalyst to an outburst. In an undignified scuffle the weapon of the Stormtrooper was unholstered and  struck the young adversary. His companions called the local contact number for the emergency services. I can imagine the call-taker frantically fingering through the training manual for the correct procedure for that opening line " I would like to report an assault by a Stormtrooper ". A witty response would be tempting but in the circumstances likely to be a disciplinary issue. The Police sent an officer , not anyone high up in the force, a rookie whose actions would form part of his assessment procedure later on. Toe to toe a conversation took place amidst a still growing crowd now causing an obstruction to the pedestrian flow. The proximity was not from intimacy or in confidence but because of the poor audio qualities of the Stormtroopers standard issue helmet, again from the use of inferior plastics in the injection moulding process. The tendering department of the Empire was well known for incompetence and corruption. By now I had to leave the situation to unfold of its own accord as the atmosphere was getting a bit heated, much like on Tatooine. I would scour the local papers during the coming week for the Court Reports if indeed a prosecution was forthcoming. There would of course be the usual enquiry and furore in the tabloids about the lowering of recruitment standards at the Stormtrooper academy and how entrance examinations were being dumbed down but set against these would be the equally strong arguments for sympathy for those in the military suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome and  that the ramifications of Einsteins Theory of Relativity had not yet been fully investigated and appreciated in the sphere of intergalactic conflict or Star Wars on Blu-Ray promotions.

Shipbuilding in Hull

I am, by nurture, a townie and have a suspicion and fear of things rural or sub-sub-urban. I take comfort in being surrounded by buildings and noise. My most fearful experience was standing in a country cottage  in deafening silence in terms of artificial and man made sounds. Apparently, people move to the countryside just to experience such peace and tranquility- weird. Although an urbanite I have also lived near rivers and other watercourses. Abingdon in my toddler years was an introduction to the Thames, Bury St Edmunds had a river. I can't recall the name but it must have been fairly major and navigable as Vikings regularly appeared in the early history of the town  to 'rape' and 'pillage', now incidentally two of Ikea's best selling open shelf bookcases. Brigg had a river that split in true bandy leg ricket style from south to north as a consequence of the old meandering course being by-passed with a canal straight to serve the marmalade factory. It was only upon moving to Hessle and Hull that I saw what a proper working river looked like. Dirty and muddy , choppy in windy weather, either full to the brim or snaking around sandbanks, dangerous with strong tides and currents, busy with shipping from the P&O passenger ferries and coastal freighters,a visiting naval frigate, huge car carriers taking Renaults up to Glews Hollow beyond Goole, low slung oil and fuel barges. With a massive river comes an equally significant history of trade, commerce, industry and shipping. I never saw the halycon days of Hull as a fishing port but heard tales and saw pictures of being able to walk from ship to ship all the way across Princes Dock- now occupied by a shopping centre. My father in law, George, Hull born and bred introduced me to the proud maritime heritage of the City. One of the many memorable experiences involved watching a sideways ship launch on the River Hull in the early 1990's. Myself and my two very young daughters got a prime viewing spot on the walkway of the blue painted metallic North Bridge with George as commentator. As a small child he had to have his head released from the riverside railings after a dare or accident. We never found the exact spot of bent ironwork. The Yorkshire Dry Dock Co had built a small freighter, a plain functional vessel and as far detached as possible from their earlier construction of The Ra, a River Nile Cruiser which, frankly, looked like a floating brothel. The excitement on the bridge and public access river bank walkways was like static in the air. The Civic representatives, ship owners and shipyard guests occupied a small red and white striped marquee on the quayside. The workforce stood suitably proud but humble either side. There must have been an official countdown on a tannoy because we joined in and then the bulk of red oxide superstructure began to edge over the dockside wall and slipped majestically into the tide swelled river. The ship rolled a bit and  like a weeble it wobbled but did not fall down. A great sight and with the added but expected bonus of a tidal wave which slapped the west bank, returned to nudge the ships hull and then repeated the cycle three or four times until diminishing to a mere ripple. A round of applause and a hearty cheer could be heard from the official party above the buzz of approval as the sizeable crowd dispersed. Sadly, I believe that was the last activity at the shipyard and business ceased shortly after.

Sound from the sea

It can be found at OSGB36 TA 410166 or WGS84 53:37.6264N   0:7.9113E

In the early weeks of autumn the clifftop path and surroundings between Kilnsea and Spurn Point are soft, organic and natural.

In the unfettered coastal winds anything not firmly rooted, bedded or bolted down is at risk from displacement. The abrasive effect of whipped up sand gives a premature ageing appearance to timber, brick and the hardy human residents of the narrow spit of land between Humber Estuary and North Sea. The farmers fields,harvested, cleared and  freshly ploughed  provide the rarity of  harsh and regimented unnatural  lines but an apt backdrop for the high concrete structure of the Kilnsea Sound Mirror.

An alien apparatus in style but with the appearance of a fifteen foot high severed and mounted big toe sticking out of the ground and with an indented nail as though hammered into smoothness with a heavy blunt object. It must have been cast in situ as transporting it overland would have involved the logistics of an Egyptian stone cutter and considerable forced and strained labour. The footings must have been dug deep and packed solid as the heavy loading of the superstructure remains pert and erect to this day.

The device was a crude manual forerunner of later radar systems with the concave surface of the dish acting as a receiver for the sounds of Zeppelins or other enemy aircraft approaching the mainland from hostile europe. The acoustic sensitivity was magnified by a microphone in the form of a trumpet head within the radius of the sound mirror which was hard wired to a Listener huddled in a slit trench in the damp clay soils surounding the installation.

This duty roster must have been feared and loathed given the perceived remoteness of the location and poor shelter from inclement conditions. The return trip  from the garrison in Hull was around 60 miles and with only small villages and hamlets in between for sustenance, shelter and conversation. In the absence of  technological aids the headphone wearing soldier would have to interpret the distance and bearing of any attackers on their own initiative and based on confidence in their aural powers. This role was not in vain as there were frequent Zeppelin raids along the East Coast during the 1914-1918 conflict. The ensuing damage to, and demoralisation of , the population may have highlighted some shortcomings in the communications from headset to interceptors.

The structure remains now almost part of the natural landscape. Either by intention or luck the physical positioning of the Sound Mirror has prevented collapse and loss of the war relic over the fast receeding cliff line. If records are lost in the future I wonder what the historians of that time will make of this strange object?

Tales from the Riverbank

I learnt as a child that if you twist a maggot it eventually bursts.

That was something that I am now not proud of doing but, after 10 hours of fishing from a riverbank with nothing to show for it, anything was mildly entertaining even if it was cruel, sadistic and fatal . That was of course after a series of maggot races with the winner being set loose in the undergrowth. A magnanimous gesture, well not really as a small grub confused and in what would appear to be Land of the Giants would not survive long. 

The 5am start of a typical angling expedition always promised so much especially on a bright and cool summers day during the school holidays. Leaving the house with no-one else to question your choice of sandwich filling or how much of the family sized loaf you used. Being able to ride bikes madly through a deserted town centre with fishing rods tied to the crossbar. It felt like you were commander of a Panzer tank. Pity that the cross bar extension, cum imitation howitzer barrel, impeded actually steering the bike in other than a series of tangents with a frantic leaning to make a required change of direction to avoid lamp posts, street furniture and parked cars.

The best bankside pitch was just past the scout hut, some 100 yards downstream from where the High Street crossed on one of the town bridges. It took a few minutes to set up rod and tackle but in absolute silence so as not to startle the fish who were just starting to show activity with a fleeting silver flash on the surface or a swirl and skirmish producing ever increasing circles.

In summer it was float fishing with optimistic use of 10 pound line. The brightest, most fluoresecent stick float was an assurance of success or at least a migraine after many hours of staring and watching for a bite. In the later hours of an expedition the float appeared to strike itself and disappear under the murky waters. A panic stricken reaction to an apparent nibble always led to line, hook and maggot ending up wrapped in the branches of the horse chestnut trees on the towpath.

In winter the method was spinning or dead baiting. The line was upgraded to 20 pound strength as we were now big game hunting. The river had a good stock of Esox Lucius, Devil Fish or just plain Pike. These were fearful predators and folklore told of swimming dogs losing a limb to the cerrated teeth of the monster fish. A friend, keen to experiment with cooking a Pike after having read about Henry the Eighth's appetite for such, caught and coshed a large one but on the bike ride home it regained consciousness in his rucksack and had to be despatched again on the verge of the A15.

I can validate the power of the pike after sitting on a 9 pounder (a mere baby) in order to release the triple barbed hook with the use of a spring loaded gag and a long discorger. Dead baiting was a bit expensive to be sustainable on just pocket money. The whitebait kept flying off the hook even after being sewn onto the line and the residents of the chalet style houses on the far bank  often found loose sea-fish on their lawns. I was disappointed that this phenomena never made it into the local papers.

I soon realised that although there was the thrilling prospect of actually catching something that was not the main reason for going fishing. There was camaraderie, there were many hilarious moments, occasional opportunities for misbehaviour and vandalism , littering and urinating in a public place,
conversing as only immature lads can and, after the obligatory 10 hours of outside activity, a real sense of having had a brilliant day out

Clear Blue Skies

Look up to the sky our lovely children wherever are and you will know for sure that you are loved.
There will be blue sky above the downtown skyscrapers even though you may feel that you are in the shadows.You may feel a long way from home but we are always close. No stone walls encircling the ancient city can prevent you from reaching up and feeling the freedom of clear space. The world is for you to explore and you can only thrive. Your music will already be winging its way into the stratosphere and it will make your heart light and full of joy. It will speak for you even though you may feel you do not have a voice just yet.

Dunn Travellin'

Everybody has their own story to tell. It is just a great loss to humanity when a life story goes untold and all that experience and hard learned wisdom is lost. I do have the honour of meeting people who have seen and contributed to the social and economic history of the planet and also the luxury, sometimes, of being able to pause and listen to tales that are fascinating. Take Mr Dunn today. We did not get off on the best terms as I parked on his driveway and he came out to greet me. I was quite rude and ignorant in continuing with a telephone conversation and gave hand signals to the effect that I would be with him in a minute. His hand signal and body language did not bode well for our appointment. I can't recall what prompted him to tell his life story but what a story it was. In 1953 at the age of 17 he was a deckie-learner on fishing trawlers out of Hull but soon enlisted in the Merchant Navy and crewed all manner of ocean going vessels under the Red Duster and the Ellerman Wilson Line Flag also from his home City. Steel tube to the Eastern Seabord of the United States, Hard packed bales of wool from South America, Coal from Poland, huge tins of corned beef from Buenos Aries. Favourite ports included New York ,although on berthing there was the usual visit from the UnAmerican Activities Committee quizzing the crew on political affilliations and standpoints on Communism , Baltimore for revealing conversations with black dock workers at the height of the racial tensions and Hamburg where Hull crew and German Dockers could easily understand each other without reverting from their mother tongues,  In a quest to stock up on souvenirs from his travels he was offered, in Indonesia, a shrunken head which he thought was monkey but was definitely of human origin. Sooner or later there was bound to be an encounter with a Steward later to become Deputy Prime Minister but temperance and libel prevents me from recounting further adventures . On a period of convalescence for an injury on board ship there was a brief period of employment handing up rivets at Dunstons Shipyard on Hessle Haven. A more significant change in career was that as an Opal Miner in Australia involving a strange subterranean existence but with a constant temperature out of the debilitating daily heat of the surface. Between long voyages there were opportunities to be a tourist and activities included diving for cannonballs just off the Crusader Fortress at Famagusta, Cyprus and climbing Ayres Rock with the certifcate of acheivement still on display at his home. The afternoon spent with Mr Dunn flew past and we parted on good terms as though we had been best pals for years.

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It was tuesday morning, about 11am.I just stood on the pavement and peeked in. The owner of Spiders Night Club had answered my heavy handed knock  with a preliminary glance through the small glazed pane in the upper part of the stout door. 'Man in a suit on the doorstep of a Club, and out of hours, pretty harmless' he must have thought, 'Man in a suit on the doorstep of Spiders out of hours-pretty cool' I thought back. In true secret society speakeasy style the door swung open . I was ready with a witty one liner password but stumbled on its delivery. "Hello, I'm here to collect my daughters jacket and my other daughters boyfriends cardigan" I said with the intended one liner now but a distant passing thought. It would come back to me later and out of context.The request was acknowledged and the two items of clothes were handed over. I could not help but comment that I had not been in Spiders since my sisters 16th birthday party in 1980. From my kerbside viewpoint I had obviously not missed much by way of redecoration or refurbishment in the 3 decades since my one and only admittance but that was somehow reassuring and timeless. The club had outlived Romeo and Juliets, outlasted Tiffany's, outshone the Silhouette Club and blasted Heaven and Hell out of existence. Why? Because at Spiders there has never been any pretention or competitive dressing up, no attempts at one-upmanship or wearing a DJ out of context, no latest fashions and certainly never any glitter or glam. Spiders is true entertainment for those not allowed to turn up the speakers too high at home or wear black other than to something formal or terminal. Metal, Rock, Punk, Indie and Motown are best heard very,very loud and in an alcoholic haze only possible through the sensible pricing of beer and spirits to match the budgets of students and those not yet in full employment. Spiders is a destination and not a bad night out afterthought. The industrial surroundings are bleak and, after 7pm, deserted so no consideration is required for the neighbours. Another distinct positive for the longevity of the club. So here's to one of Hull's finest institutions, fondly remembered by multiple generations as a genuine place to enjoy yourself. I was glad that I had been asked to collect the forgotten belongings and see inside the secret world of Spiders.

The Elm Tree

Is it true that stormy weather affects the behaviour of children? Remember back to your own younger, formative years when the prospect of a storm brought a sense of fear and anticipation in equal measures. I lived as a child in a modern house built in the 1970's but with a huge and ancient Elm Tree in the back garden and bordering onto the headland of farmers fields. The tree provided a shady spot from the midday sun, a filter for the ash debris when Flixborough Chemical Plant exploded, served as an incubator for fascinating insects ,a source of swords and weapons from the periodic shedding of branches and a fascinating array of fungus and organic growths to poke at with a sharp stick. All of these were a delight in daylight hours but after dark and with the unpredicatability of gale force winds the tree took on the persona of a thing of great fear. My bedroom overlooked the Elm and the sheer raking movement under the duress of a strong westerley was something to be in awe of. Coupled with the sounds of creaking boughs and, when in full canopy, the swish and swosh of the heavy leaf cover that was enough to seek shelter under the bed covers or if above storm force 6, in the wardrobe. The tree, if subject to the trauma of major structural weakness or failure, was easily within striking distance of the house and this lessened my feelings of confidence in the bricks, mortar and tiles of my home. Tree and House remained however apart and separate entities although after one particularly violent autumn storm a large foliage section fell to the ground just missing the beloved Kelloggs sourced climbing frame. This severed limb of the tree remained for some considerable time and became a popular seat, fortress, den and a place to take out your family frustrations with another sharp stick. It was a sad day when the tree surgeon confirmed that the fungal canker in the central trunk position was Dutch Elm Disease. Us misguided children declared an equivalent plague on the whole nation of The Netherlands for importing this terminal illness and we all danced a dance of war around the smokey remains of the tree after it was chopped down. There was a huge gap in our lives and also the rear boundary after this event. In commemoration my parents did buy and plant some silver birch trees but we could not wait, as children, to the time when these would be as mighty and intimidating as the Elm. Storms were never quite as frightening after that time.

Burn the chicken

Does 40 years in a Rock Band give the skills necessary to reverse a Transit van up to the stage entrance at Hessle Town Hall? Evidently yes, and Martin Turner, one of the original and founder members of Wishbone Ash showed supreme parking skills between the Police Station wall and and the disabled access ramp for the side door. He's quite deft as well at roadie work and making sure the concessions stand has enough DVD's and T's. The Argus album is 40 years old this year, album of the year in 1971 and now forming the core of a tour of the band as MTWA. The definitive history of the original Wishbone Ash is interesting but in true 'Anvil' style, a catalogue or should that be back catalogue of missed opportunities, wrong musical directions and a degree of conflict not unknown between the personalties and aspirations of any group of 4 persons. A bit like family life but without blood-ties. It can be a bit sad to go from chaffeur driven Limo Stateside to panel van Humber side but the Town Hall was full and appreciative. I was amongst the youngest at aged 48 and I was fearful that my 16 year old son would be approached and offered money for a harvest of organs but there were true fans which, for a band that was never really fashionable, shows that they have been doing something right. The set started with The King will Come and during the rockin' 2 hours (less prostate break) much of the Argus playlist was covered in excellent style and with a pure quality of sound and detail. I had forgotten many of the tracks and also the chronological order of the albums produced from 1970 to 1985. If you get a chance try a playlist to include Blowin' Free, Persephone, Throw Down the Sword, Blind Eye, Way of The World and Living Proof. Martin Turner's bass was thumping and taut and the trademark twin lead guitarists showed a longstanding familiarity with the work of the band. Not bad as they will have been mere teenagers at the time that the band originally formed. The drummer was funky in headband and sweatpants but also held it all together. Myself and son had feared the worst for the gig and had kept expectations low but the quality and musicianship was fantastic. The band lives on and thrives, roll, rock and roll on to the 50th anniversary.

Go Green

The garden bags are on the move again. You know the ones, usually given out free by the Council and now a standard addition to the sunday trip to the tip and gracing many a back garden. After a blustery day I usually have to retrieve them from the driveway, trapped under the front spoiler of the car or tripped up and trapped by the front offside wheel. I am sure these early attempts to escape the garden  are just to test the system, reconnoitre the immediate vicinity and a pre-cursor to the main breakout. The bags can be suppressed by filling them, as intended, with green waste. That is their role and they are pleased to do it, sitting open mouthed and docile. They relish the moment when they are loaded awkwardly into the back of the car and I swear that there is an audible sigh when their contents cascade into the huge waste container as allocated at the Civic Amenity Site. I have, fearful of their disappearance, taken to storing them when empty inside the new brown bin  but in the darkness, amongst the pungent odour of vegetation and the wing beat turbulence of the insects  I am sure that the master escape plan was devised. What were they waiting for?
It had been a good summer for growing but not sitting out and enjoying the garden. Always things to do, cut back the hedge, trim the lawn, massacre the wild thorn, pull up the weeds. Soon the brown bin was full and, not thinking, I wedged and weighed down the green bags under a loose paving slab. I did not allow for the last but still powerful gusts of the North Atlantic hurricane sweeping across the country from west to east. It had lifted houses across neighbourhoods in Mississippi, left boats in trees in Alabama and generated a tidal surge in downtown New York. In my back garden it inflated the green bags just enough to raise and tip up the restraining paving slab. A further Gulf Stream warmed bulb of air filled and lightened the natural weave and they were off. Clear of the brown bin acting as sentry, brushing in contempt over the bonnet of the car, just sweeping over the driveway gates, dodging the airstream of the mass of the 66 bus and they were away and free.

That week the Council received an unusually high number of requests for replacement bags.

Child's Play

Childhood and the early years of adulthood can be a very dangerous time. At least it was in the 1960's, 1970's and early 80's when Health and Safety was but a rich seam of potential  income yet to be discovered. I do not hold my parents responsible for any of my hazardous exploits. They looked after me and cared for me but not enough to stifle the inquisitiveness or sheer ignorance of a young lad seeking his way and place in the world. The following are just some of the events that I can remember. I do not think I have impaired memory as a consequence of what I am about to catalogue, but that the occurences were simply too plentiful to recall in full and in detail.
1967- Aged 4 years. Thought I would amble down a beach slipway to fill up my plastic seaside bucket in order to collect seawater to fill up the moat of the sandcastle I had just moulded from the same bucket. Did not account for the slippery nature of seaweed and fell into what felt like a few fathoms of swirly water. I still to this day recall  looking up through the frothy foam of the waves and seeing the sun. Rescued by my father.
1975-Aged 12. Experimented with electrical current by sticking thumb into the socket for the Christmas Tree lights. Found myself on the other side of the room with a sore thumb. Told no-one until now.
1976- Aged 13. Commercial venture to produce ginger beer curtailed after bottles of the first batch exploded in the kitchen gouging large holes in door and walls only minutes before family breakfast. Note to self at the time- do not put screw top lids on gaseous home brew. Also do it in a shed.
1977- Aged 14. This time exposed whole family to potential tragedy. Enthusiastic to get Scouting badge for car maintenance . Supervised in wheel change procedure on the Morris Minor but failed to tighten up bolts on front nearside even though convinced I had done this. Not evident until some miles into journey.
1978-Aged 15. Keen to impress French exchange student, can't now remember her name. Swam out into the North Sea only to look back to the Life Guard Station to see a Red 'No Swim' Flag flying. Alerted to the sheer physical  strength of tidal undertow and just struggled back to the shore. Still in awe of marine things. Not in awe of french girls.
1978-1983. Reasonable period- must have got some sense how not to get into perilous situations. Surprising as coincided with learning to drive and leaving home to get further edukated. I was nearly stabbed outside a nightclub but was only notified of this by horrified fellow students when I  sobered up. Don't really like nightclubs anyway.
1984. Aged 21- Racing in a tractor across a field during summer holiday working. Did not really comprehend that a tractor is not intended for stunt driving on a slope. Up on 2 wheels and very close to becoming a farm safety statistic.
1986- finally grew up and became ultra-cautious about everything but in a good way

There is a lot to be said for the quiet life.

Coffee Shop Lecture

I was rather rudely reprimanded  by a complete stranger in Starbucks for a simple descriptive statement. Incorrect though I may have been in my imparting of knowledge I objected to his intrusion into what had been a private conversation with my son. My attempt at resurrecting my GCSE Geography and impressing the lad was shot down in flames by a senior and  portly chap in a cardigan, moleskin trousers, sporting field glasses and a tall skinny latte. The point of the unprovoked verbal attack was my confident opinion that "the Humber is indeed a mighty river". He rebuked me with the comment "it is in fact not a river but an estuary". I stood shocked and corrected. I could sense the disappointment in me from my son who always looked to me for explanations to the mystery of landforms, strange hillocks and both alluvial and glacial features. All I had told him was now in doubt. I was now no longer a credible father when before I had always tried to be an incredible one. Would my lecture on the volcanic origins of the rock beneath Edinburgh Castle now stand up to scrutiny? Would my son believe my detailed story of how the glaciers gouged a route through to the east coast and that our favourite coastal town was built on a series of moraines or residual piles of soil and debris? As for the power of rivers and streams to shape the landscape from their freshwater source to the saline sea (an estuary indeed) I honestly believed he would not cast a second glance now that his father had been exposed as a geographical fraud. I tried to regain some composure but any quick and witty defence escaped me completely. I looked around the coffee shop for any potential sympathetic allies. In the window overlooking the river/estuary was a regular, a Methodist Minister, always in attendance at the same time every thursday afternoon. I swear that he simply looked the other way not wanting to get involved in an argument over a watercourse unless it involved a miracle. A young couple at the counter did offer me a brief look of empathy(was the portly chap a relative of theirs?) but then again I do not think that the geography curriculum in their recent educational time reached the heady heights of pluvial matters. Perhaps a supporting word on population or urban models could have been forthcoming but they were as useful to me as a canoe without a paddle. I admit that I was stumped for words and as I left Starbucks with an embarassed youth in tow I could only wish that the waters of the river, oops estuary, would swallow me up whole.

Ever increasing circles

I was convinced that the circle of compacted grass was not of this world. Having watched 'Signs' I have developed a fear of the first metre and a half depth of Maize fields because that is the part that aliens always emerge from with sinister intent towards humankind. Anything beyond that depth and up to the entry ramp of the spacecraft I have no problem with.  Get that far in the clutches of an Alien and you will be well beyond fear.
The circle in the field was mystifying because of its proximity to a busy road and a group of houses but with the latest version of a cloaking system such as that  developed in 'Star Trek-The Way Home' even the densest of estate housing would be oblivious to the comings and goings of a spacecraft. I do suspect however that the Authorities have intentionally cluttered our streets with wheelie bins to give advance warning of an alien landing. Green for multi-purpose aliens, brown for those already residing deep in the bowels of the earth and blue for invaders of an aquatic outlook. I am a bit confused by the newest small containers unless there is a race of mini-extra terrestrials heading for our planet. I have not even attempted to use the new wheelie small bin. Aarrgh, could it be the portal by which the MET's arrive in our very midst? (James Cameron- be aware that was my idea but I have not got around to a Patent yet). I got closer to the grass circle to investigate. The blades of grass were strangely arranged in submission and with abrasion marks as though the tastiest part of the shoots had been harvested in a systematic way. The outer rim of the phenomenom was eroded in a shallow depression which worked out in a spiral configuration. I could attribute this to the decreasing rotational mass of the craft on landing. No indications of scorching or damage from the lift off process which indicated a very advanced form of propulsion. Certainly a well progressed race. Within the scope of the circle were small patches of brown divot with a thriving range of flora and fauna. Could this be the very building blocks of the universe, a form of genetic growth boost? I picked up, smelled and tasted the brown residue- pungent and earthy but not without acidity and a fruity aroma. In the very centre of the ring I found a large metallic probe inserted into the soil to some depth. This could not be moved and I speculated this to be a very part of the flying saucer, perhaps an anchor to earth or a means to replenish energy supplies in an eco-friendly way some 2 million light years ahead of Honda making it available to the public. I could only stand and wonder at what the universe and our nearest space neighbours could teach us.
It was now quite dark and foreboding in that place. As I made my way quickly out of the field landing site I almost tripped over a gypsey horse tethered to a long rope and happily working its way around the lush vegetation. What frightful things that animal had witnessed we may never know,

The ethical man

I met with Mr Chaudary today. I haven't seen him for about 10 years and it was nice to see him again. He has not changed at all in that time, slight of build, white haired, dark brown eyes and with a mischievous and disarming manner which has obviously done him well in commerce and life. He reminded me that we had done a lot of business in the past and I was pleased to hear that he considered that a particularly difficult purchase had been marshalled through by my tenacity and he now referred to that shop property as "Mr Thomson's". I thought that a handwritten sign to that effect would not look out of place on a very up-market coffee bar or bistro but the rather plain premises trade, in fact, as a Polski Smak. He was complimentary in my endeavours on his behalf in the matter of a blockhouse building behind his row of shops and with which, I recall, there had been considerable wranglings with a Utility Company over rent and rights. He had taken the Corporation to the Supreme Court and was now the proud owner of the windowless building and remaining parts of a transformer. Mr Chaudary is now 78 years old but has the energy and determination in business that would have all of the Den Dragons in an undignified scrum to become a partner in his ventures.I have been privileged to know him for a short phase in his later life and I am richer for it in terms of appreciating an ethical approach to business and acquaintances and the value of extending courtesy to those whom I come across in the workplace, in society and in the wider world. I was sad to hear that his sons and daughters, whilst successful in their own fields of law, accountancy and medecine, did not want to take up the retail and property based concerns that he had built up but such is the progression of successive generations. Their own take on life will be inspired by their father and that is a lasting and appropriate legacy for my friend Mr Chaudary.

Coastal Retreat

I am very well qualified to provide an up to date report on the current state of the Holderness coastline, the fastest eroding in Europe.  My credentials are not academic, scientific or geographic. I have not augured the boulder clay and carbon dated the glacial deposits. I cannot profess to knowing the actual physical forces promoting the saturation and slump of the soil. I have not sat in a precariously balanced clifftop chalet whilst a lifetimes collection of garden ornaments tumble into the North Sea to emerge millenia later as fine particles forming a new stretch of beach at Clacton. My experience, well it is from parking up and falling asleep at all of the current cul de sac roadways terminating at the cliffline. Only just today I revisited Ulrome, a wonderful spot just at the southern cusp of Bridlington Bay and with a sweeping eyeline view out to the Flamborough Head lighthouse. The keepers of the light must feel really smug on their chalk plug of a headland whilst their near neighbours and brethren towards Spurn Point struggle to retain a foothold in England. The Ulrome resting place is fast diminishing. No expensive or extensive coastal defences are warranted unless you staunchly defend the right to see a plastic Walls Ice Cream flag stiffly flapping as a guarantee of a good British seaside holiday. The cafe owners at Ulrome have optimistically claimed the top of the cliff for a seating area for customers but have they not realised that it takes less and less visitors every day to reach full occupancy. I suspect that on  a very blustery and showery monday, today, it is more a time to re-arrange the stock than be run off your feet serving snacks. The strength of the wind, in rocking the car gently made for a good power-knap. I can also recommend the parking area and viewpoint at Mappleton for a restful break. This is a fairly recent venue occupying an elevated position above the massive imported granite rock reef which is intended to protect the strategic, as in the only, road, south of Hornsea. It is amusing to keep half an eye and one ear open and alert to the comings and goings of visitors to the car park ,not for the sake of people watching but to avoid being blown up with the enthusiastic retrieval and display of corroded and unstable ordnance from the adjacent Cowden  Beach live firing range. I remember that tuesdays in the 1980's was air attack day with coastal strafing by A10-Thunderbolts. Having observed the pitifully poor aim and deployment of missiles and heavy rounds by the US Army Air Corps on such days I am not surprised on the wide availabilty of cold war memorabilia. My favourite location for a snooze and peruse is Tunstall a bit further south. This is a positively cosmopolitan and hectic environment with a large and well patronised static caravan park, facilities and a boat compound. My late Father in law, George ran a cobble fishing boat out of Tunstall and I can certainly appreciate the attraction of the place. The Holderness coast may be fast receeding, some 3 miles and many rural hamlets have disappeared to the sea since the Doomsday Book, but it does have two dominant factors in abundance- a lot of sea and a very big sky. I find these things very therapeutic and cannot help but drift off. I am comforted by my calculation that if I park seventeen and a half  feet from the current precipice I have at least a full year of undisturbed sleep with no worries of being roughly deposited on the sandy beach below ,car and all.