Landfall in Hull

The end of the line, a dead end, you only go to Hull if you have to.......heard it before, heard it today and those who have never visited the great City will continue to say it in the coming years.

Yet, for the estimated 2,200,000 immigrants who passed through Hull on the way to settlement in the United States, Canada and South Africa in the mid to late 19th Century it marked the beginning of the next stage of their arduous journey to find safety from persecution and to earn a living.

Arrival in the port will have brought a graphic realisation that their flight was progressing, particularly after a hellish three to four days of passage across the volatile North Sea from the Baltic Ports. At last, some firm soil under their feet and the prospect of a rapid train transfer across the country to the mass transit hub of Liverpool.

There had been a negligible trickle of migrants, around 1000 a year in the early part of the century. Risking sickness or a perishing at sea these early arrivals mainly settled in the emerging Industrial centres of England and quickly established communities in York, Leeds and Manchester. By the 1840's the transport of emigrants from Norway, Sweden and North Germany was big business for steamship companies who switched fully to passenger cargo or maintained a mix of goods and people. The Wilson Line, a Hull based company, held a virtual monopoly of the routes. The generation of income from frequent crossings was tremendous but at the cost of quality and humane standards. This drew the attention of the Hull Board of Health, who had a running battle with the Wilson Line over poor and unacceptable standards of their passenger vessels. The Steamship Argo was likened to a little better than a cattle ship. Human excrement running down and sticking to the side of the superstructure was cited. The inhumane conditions threatened not only the health and welfare of the poor transportees but also the wider City population.When ships arrivals did not coincide with the running times for ongoing trains the squalid conditions on board persisted with, largely, only the male emigrants allowed to venture out into the city.

Outbreaks of Cholera in most of the European Ports demanded immediate action to prevent an epidemic amongst the local population. The Hull Sanitary Authority was formed in 1851, an early Quango, with responsibility for the wider urban area and the Port. Main embarcation points in the central and eastern docks included the Steam Packet Wharf in the Humber Dock Basin or the Victoria Dock.

The Minerva Hotel on the Dock Basin Quay served as offices for emigrant agents and became established as the hub of the operation. The threat to Health was serious and after 1866 the arrivees at Victoria Dock were not allowed to cross the town on foot and were kettled onto trains on the North Eastern Railway.

Those arriving at the Dock Basin were invariably held on board. A safer option, particularly as confused and disorientated european migrants were at significant risk of exploitation by the inevitable presence of chancers and racketeers in the narrow dockside streets.

A major improvement and recognition of the vast human traffic through Hull was the construction, in 1871, of an Immigrant Waiting Room and allocation of a transit platform just on the southern edge of Paragon Station with a frontage to Anlaby Road. This building still survives as a Bar and Social Club for Hull City football supporters. The building, a long, narrow, low slung brick and slate structure had actual but limited facilities for the comfort and convenience of immigrants. The prospect of a first wash, secure toilet and permanent landside shelter was well overdue. From the building ticket agents could ply their business in a controlled environment against criminal activity.

Once ashore, most passengers were despatched on the next leg of their journey within 24 hours. Those delayed for whatever reason and requiring lodgings had a limited choice evidently a Directive from the authorities to discourage even temporary settlement. Twenty emigrant lodging houses were officially licenced in 1871. These were little more than dormitories accommodating between 20 and 80 people at a time.

The Waiting Room had to be extended within ten years. Arrivals continued to increase up to 1885 and the Hull and Barnsley Railway Company jumped in to capitalise on the trade with a second emigrant platform at their new Alexandra Dock development. The purpose built complex could take the largest of steamships and the prompt transfer of passengers to trains of 17 carriages, the last four being exclusively for baggage. The long trains had priority on the line with a monday morning departure for the 4 hour journey to Liverpool, the gateway to the United States and Canada.

The exodus from Europe was persistent and in 1904 the Wilson Line leased a separate landing station at Island Wharf at the Basin mouth being the fourth such facility across the waterfront. The income from this trade, for the Wilson Line, had made it the largest privately owned shipping line in the world. There was another ten years of peak profits from the transmigration business before the outbreak of the First World War ended the trade overnight.

Hull was the natural stepping stone for those escaping to a better percieved life in the west. Amongst the 2.2 million passing through was a documented, but estimated, 500,000 european Jews and up to 70,000 of Russian and Polish origin. Large numbers of Swedish, Norwegian and Danish migrants, mainly of hardy farming stock , were customers of The Wilson Line for resettlement in North America.

The Island Wharf has a permanent commemorative statue to the plight of the immigrants with a family sat amongst suitcases containing their worldly belongings , looking a bit apprehensive about what lies ahead.

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Northern_European_Family_-_geograph.org.uk_-_540649.jpg

This is a repeat of an early blog but representing an issue that is etched into the history and inheritance of Hull and its people.

Perfect Future

I was in a long queue of traffic awaiting my turn to creep through the traffic lights.

The narrow single vehicle clearance was alongside a deep excavated gash in what would normally have been the other lane but now heavily bounded by a line of horrendously purple coloured plastic barriers. No doubt some bright spark in the marketing department of the civil contractors Trench, Trench, Ramp and Trench had cottoned on to the idea of making their presence even more apparent to motorists, cyclists and pedestrians in a trademark colour to match their vans, diggers and also the faces of their labouring labourers. That sort of consideration explains why they are called civil, I'm sure.

In a sad but very practical way I had timed the average wait at what was indicated as a three way controlled road works at two and a half minutes. Given the backed up traffic and those anti-social motorists who insisted on playing follow my leader even on a long displayed red light the actual allocation of time to squeeze through the purple haze was but a few seconds. At best three of four vehicles, only, made it through and to freedom from each direction.

I therefore had plenty of spare time on my hands.

After fiddling with the radio, wiping down the dashboard with my oversized cleaning mitten, playing around with the electronic settings on my seat and gathering up empty drinks cans and sweet wrappers so as not to become wedged under the brake pedal I was bored.

Looking right out of the car window I noticed a large rectangular sign board in the entrance to an unremarkable piece of scrubland. The marine ply had been whitewashed and supported on two substantial wooden posts driven into the hard clay soil. There were just four words thereon in large and clear script, evidently painted through a hand cut stencil rather than being left dependant on a steady hand and the judgement of an eye. The words were more prophetic than descriptive ' Land for Future Development'.

I let my mind and imagination wander over this prospect.

Future Development. At last someone was trying to meet the expectations that I have had since I was 6 years old and got excited that Neil Armstrong in 1969 was setting the foundations for my pending residence on the moon.  I became very distressed when in the TV series Space 1999 the moon was blasted out of earth orbit which seemed to me to put an end to my lunar house plans. I would have to settle for a more earthly abode however and would dream about a glass domed world of tropical plants and a controlled climate against the ravages of an earth at risk from something whispered about at that time as global warming or something like that. The threat of nuclear war in the 80's got me thinking about having to live underground for a long time before being able to emerge into a post atomic winter landscape.

Perhaps the hoarding was a form of instruction to aliens but then again anything was possible. A civilisation proficient in intergalactic travel would possibly be a bit insulted by an invitation by earthlings to set themselves down and have their future developed. The initiative and experience would be ours to learn from visitors from outer space rather than the other way round. We presume too much when we have little or no comprehension of things beyond our own atmosphere.

The signboard could be part of an exchange project with the inhabitants of Mars. After all, a wheeled exploration craft has just been set loose on their planet and they may have intentions to reciprocate or even extend their portfolio of planets by taking an interest in or control of ours.

I started to muse in the queue about what sort of other developments I would like to see in the future. These were more consistent with my older and hopefully wiser outlook on life.

Free energy for all would be a nice gesture followed by unrestricted access to fresh water. Getting the economy going on a national and global basis would be helpful to assist in full and meaningful employment and all the social spin offs that arise when people have their self belief and wellbeing boosted by contributing to their families and neighbourhoods. Respect for others and a few words of encouragement also go a long way as we all know from that swelling of targeted pride and emotion during the Olympic Games on our shores. Housing needs a bit of sorting out so as to be affordable and manageable without fear of fuel poverty or deprivation. We could all do with extra leisure time as I seem to remember getting excited about the prospect of working less hours and taking early retirement many years ago but these two enticements seem to have gone the same way as the paperless office and the Dodo. As a bonus how about a world at peace.

I was fascinated by the prospect of what that piece of scrubland could contribute to mankind if indeed its owners plans came to fruition. I will certainly maintain a watching brief over that inconspicous few acres and hope to be at the front of the line when indeed the future arrives.

You say tomato.....

I am one of a few people who has been known to strongly dispute the membership in the fruit family of the tomato.

That was until today when I was shown how they should be grown in a proper, cared for garden greenhouse, fully organic, ventilated and tended.

I came away with not only an education on how to successfully cultivate a tomato but also a carrier bag full of four varieties, each a celebration of colour, shape and .......yes, I did sneak a taste before showing them off to the family upon my return home. Gorgeously delicious.

Of course, such was my amazement at the sight of the vertically strung vines with their heavy slung crop that I was not really listening to Dennis, the grower, when he described the individual types and their names and origins. This is quite shameful and disrespectful on my part. I have therefore only laymans terms to try to convey what the tremendous fruits look like and what they taste of.

Here is my big tomato taste off experience.

Tomato Type 1. I have called this the human heart because of its distinctive shape. Tapering down to a delicate flat nosed point, quite sensual in appearance and with a finely natural stitched seam in the best handiwork of a skillful surgeon. The stem  is tightly bunched around the crown and with that very distinctive smell that reminds me of sneaking into Uncle Harolds Greenhouse when I was young, must have been about 1968. A sharp knife cut through the soft flesh reveals the dense, juicy flesh almost like a water melon without this pips and yet more of that evocative fresh flavour that only a tomato, harvested within the last 2 hours can provide.

Tomato Type 2. Nectarine. Pure fruit in style and texture. Sweet tasting and making it necessary to put both my shirt and tie into an overnight wash following the pressurised escape of finely shaped seeds upon first bite. The red ripeness is tempered by a dusting of green around the stem but otherwise unblemished from careful tending and nurturing through the early weeks of becoming established on the vine. There has been some threat from a leaf based mite ( I was listening at that moment) which works its way between the inner and outer surfaces of the leaf of the vine leaving a trail like a demented woodworm. It has been a constant battle to counter such threats in the growing season.

Tomato Type 3. Money Maker. This is an actual variety of widespread commercial growing and most likely to be the one packed and sealed by your local supermarket at 6 for £1. It has, in the interests of longevity and volume, been tampered with on a regular basis with genetic modifications and cross fertilisation with other types. It resembles a standard tomato in size and texture and is very much a pale imitation of what I have referred to as the human heart and the nectarine. It still has its merits of ease of cooking, storage and preservation and no doubt would make a great chutney.

Tomato Type 4. Traffic light. The smallest variety of tomato in my carrier bag of spoils from Dennis's garden with red, orange and green colouration and still on the vine in long strands, tight and firm. Unfortuately they had worked their way to the bottom of the bag and under the sheer and dense goodness of the rest of the larger sized crop were a bit crushed and split with seeds spilling out. I had to resort to eating these first. A few sneaked out from the admiring gaze of the children and like forbidden fruit, savoured and enjoyed immensely. I will hang up the vines for a few days to allow the green tomato's to ripen a bit more as I am led to understand will be the natural process.

I have taken a  few photographs of the visual and taste feast that I have been privileged to receive and will look forward to working my way through the sensational textures and sweetness of what is now my firm number one favourite fruit.

Wars of The Poseurs

They left the back door wide open and we just waltzed on in.

There cannot be many of the worlds great Cities that could be so complacent but we found ourselves in the very centre of York, a walled city and fortress from Roman times and over the millenia a cultural centre and seat of power for marauding Scandinavians, Archbishops and Kings.

There is precedent of course in the annals of history for subterfuge and deception in the hostile entry into cities what with concealment in the belly of a hollow wooden horse or with treacherous guides leading armies through subterranean tunnels to pop out and surprise the inhabitants.

Fortunately for the citizens of York we were not an army intent on pillaging or ransacking but just a chubby man and The Boy with a singleminded purpose of covering the 30 mile or so round trip from Selby to the footbridge over the River Ouse just by York Railway Station. Yes, another day- another bike ride.

This one had been much talked about and I had heard good things about the route from other cyclists. It was held in high esteem being mostly traffic free, direct, flat and level, north to south to avoid most troublesome headwinds, well serviced by local shops and services and of some general and historic interest.

I like a bit of general and historic interest on a route. The Boy does not but tolerates my impromptu lectures on such things with a weariness well practised.

The start point was outside a row of terraced houses with the residents casually observing our preparations. Bikes were lifted off the roof rack. Clothing was put on or adjusted. Seating positions fidgeted with. Helmets tightened. Then the critical ritual of catching a reflection of ourselves in the windows of parked cars. We looked the part or at least like a part.

First creak of the pedals and cranks up the loosely gravelled slope from the street to the flood wall. A moment to catch that first breath and then onwards. We were riding along, well elevated above the road on our right and the river to the left. Houses were passed at first floor bedroom window level but we kept eyes front in case anyone was naked, stretching and scratching as would be a regular sunday morning activity.

The more utilitarian buildings of the Rank Hovis Flour Mill were well on the way to being reduced to rubble although activity had ceased for the duration of the Bank Holiday Weekend. The path dipped down through a muddy copse before spilling us out onto the main road through Barlby Village. The road, bypassed for some years from the A19, was quiet. I explained to The Boy that, being a linear settlement, it would be a long village and after 3 miles the term linear was pretty well demonstrated.

The path resumed paralell to the busy trunk road leading to York. Smooth tarmac with only a few ructions from tree roots and a necessary swerve or two to avoid wrappings and plastic drinks cups bearing the McDonalds logo.

Riccall village next. My lectures became a bit political as I explained to The Boy that what now gave the impression of an affluent middle class dormitory village had up until recently been in the thick of the once mighty Selby Coalfield. Forward movement and breathelessness on my part is likely to have provided The Boy with a rather disjointed series of names, words and phrases. National Coal Board, blah, blah, Scargill, blah, blah, Thatcher, blah, blah, Strike Action, blah, blah, Privatisation, blah, blah, shut down and regeneration, blah, blah, blah. Sadly and poignantly , there are no real remaining hints of the hazardous industry that provided the livelihoods and income for the local population and the wealth of a Nation, well not on the superficial surface of things.

At the northern end of Riccall the route directed us onto a former railway line. This would be the main artery into York, a joyous 7 miles of tarmac strip through open countryside, arched tree cover, a few stranded bridges and with a scaled representation of the Solar System. It was a clever illustration with waymarkers representing the planets and giving some realisation of how much void of space separated them. Of course we laughed at Uranus and being a bit saddle sore from our accumulated weekly mileage made jokes about our own.

The Selby to York axis was evidently very well patronised by bikes, walkers, dogs and baby buggies and, elbows in, we passed large family groups, focused individuals and the downright dour and unfriendly. Naburn Railway Station, devoid of a railway, was busy serving snacks and providing a rest stop with an option to play with an oversized chess set. A little further on was a large crowd on the grey metal bridge overlooking the river and marina. A cavalcade of boats, postponed because of flooding on its scheduled date, was now taking place. We threaded our way through the onlookers.

The southern suburbs of York were now ahead and a detour took us down a cul de sac of square, featureless houses and under the A63 dual carriageway that travels the 19 mile circumference of York as its orbital road. Litter and mud impeded our ride across York Racecourse which was recovering from the previous days attendance . Our tyres dragged through the thick grass of the gallops whilst the groundskeepers replaced hoof indented divots.

It was therefore a welcome change to ride on a road, a downhill one at that and our aching joints had some respite. Swinging right we entered Joseph Rowntree Park and being paralell to the festivities on the river it was again crowded and busy. The Park, a philanthropical gift from the Rowntree Family occupies a prime riverfront position. Expensive apartments and town houses have been thwarted from being even more expensive by virtue of a direct river frontage  by the green strip of the public open space and hover about, enviously in the background.

We are now on the last section of our inward journey. More crowds, a few tourists on an open topped bus, patrons of pubs and restaurants sat out in the open enjoying the weather and atmosphere. We are now very central.

Eight quite muscley and brawny women block our way as they lift and carry their boat into the rowing club. On the water the small red painted motor boats that can be hired on an hourly basis chug along with the parade which includes some large and impressive yachts and cruisers all bedecked in bunting and red duster flags. Against the flow are small fleets of canoes quite close to the terraced embankment  struggling to hold their position on the choppy wash. We had reached our target, the footbridge, with a sense of acheivement and satisfaction.

In history, those like ourselves who had penetrated a fortified city will no doubt have gone on a rampage, bloody and merciless. We settled for a plate of homemade lemon drizzle cake and two milky coffees at a  streetside cafe. To the victors - the spoils.

Sister in Law

What more could you ask for in a person than kindness, a completely selfless nature, a determination often against the odds to support and sustain family and friends, a strong work ethic and an upbeat attitude to life, love, painting and decorating.

These attributes go only a little way to describe my Sister in Law, Gillian.

Words fall well short of truly reflecting her character and qualities which are well known and valued by all those who are in the privileged position to know her. I consider myself to be amongst this select group and I will be the first to declare that I have laughed out loud, got a bit emotional and have been in complete awe of her spirit, endeavour, creativity and enterprise.

Just yesterday a small package arrived in the early post. No determining marks, no senders details. A bulky contents but even with careful feeling and probing of the unopened packet there were no real clues as to what had been sent by person or persons unknown.

I was a little bit suspicious at first and had half a thought to Google Search a contact number for the Bomb Squad but my wife recognised the handwriting as Gillians.

This fact opened up all and every possibility of what I would find because Gillian thinks well beyond the normal parameters of the likes of you and me. You can always count on her to rekindle what you feared were long lost but nevertheless fond memories of people, things, times and events through her clever sourcing of iconic things which can only be possible through many hours of careful searching on the internet and in the darker recesses of shops and car boot stalls.

The delivery addresed to me contained a large box of bubble gum.

Not just any brand but the original Bazooka Joe. In my younger days I contributed many old pennies and new pence to the parent company Topps Inc from Pennsylvania through my favoured purchase of the potent and, on reflection, highly flavoured and preserved gum. The actual sweet element was tolerated mainly for the prospect of collecting the greasproof paper overprinted tokens which together with a hefty cash consideration could go towards acquiring all matter of flimsy, faulty, flawed and useless goods and toys.

The box of gum which Gillian had tracked down in a retro-confectioners in Scarborough immediately transported me back to my youth and that time of innocence when all summer holidays were of perfect weather, Ice pops were huge and plentiful and no-one made comments about walking about in just your pants.

BS (Big Society)

In its ultimate wisdom the British Government is proposing sending Cub Scouts into the deprived and troubled inner cities to show the youth in those areas how to live their lives................


The freshly washed and neatly attired members of St Chalfont by St Mary's Cub Scouts stared in disbelief out of the steamed up windows of the mini bus as it entered the London Borough of Hackney.

It was either a gross clerical error or perhaps the vindictiveness of a Civil Servant ,who had not reached the prestigious position of a Sixer, that had thrown the troop members from a leafy Surrey suburb into a war zone.

Little did their parents know or suspect what was instore for their beloved offspring as they had kerbed their 4 x 4's and German built executive saloons in the narrow lane adjacent to the Parish Church. It was just a short walk past the meticulously kept graveyard to the brand spanking new Scout Hut. The building had been purchased with the bequest of a former Leader of the St Chalfont by St Mary's Troop, or rather the deposited and interest accrued damages for wrongful arrest from an alleged  brand of spanking incident involving said person and two Girl Guide Leaders some time in the 1970's. Suffice to say, cooking chicken in a billie-can with a large amount of strong cider and on a particularly hot summers day had been frowned upon ever since.

The cub scouts, mostly bespectacled and swotty looking, were immaculately turned out in their uniforms. A glimpse at the great array of badges displayed on their thin, underdeveloped arms testified to an impressive record of acheivement. Closer scrutiny showed a bias towards the rather more pedestrian and non-physical activities of chess, drama, swimming, natural studies and cookery. This was not a crack unit prepared to take on the demands of an inner city secondment, far from it. The cub scout group were more at ease and indeed had been heralded for their ability to entertain the residents of the St Chalfont by St Mary's Nursing Home at critical dates in the calendar, meaning Easter, Bank Holidays and the Festive period.

They were also well regarded in providing help at Table Top Sales, the Annual Village Fete and could be relied to turn out in full uniform plus shiny shoes if any member of the Royal Family was scheduled to pass through on the High Street at any time, even upon short notice.

The inner city appointment was to consist of a stay over and one full day of an informative introduction to Scouting or under the buzz words of 'Taster Day' for twenty of the younger residents of a local authority tower block identified by their Social Workers as being possibly receptive to such. Their Youth Club had disbanded after the building had burnt down for a fourth time. Various initiatives of basket weaving, playing in sand and growing vegetables had gone disastrously wrong for all concerned.

The visit by St Chalfont by St Mary's Cub Scout Group was seen as the measure of last resort without a custodian or supervisory regime being introduced. The mini bus parked up at about tea time at the Neighbourhood Office of the Estate.

The welcome was full on.

A Steel band, street dancers, loud PA system, burger van and other food concessions either spicy or sweet in aroma lurched into action as the occupants of the bus reluctantly alighted. Such scenes were not entirely alien and disturbing to a good proportion of the cubs scouts who had, within the previous couple of years, holidayed with family in the Caribbean or had actually been to an amusement park in the United States to witness brashness and bad taste at first hand.

Suspicion and not a little apprehension came from the Hackney lads. They had been led to believe that their visitors were akin to the cast of The Expendables, able to skin an animal or build a bivouac without apparent effort. Initial thoughts from the selected deprived were that a bus carrying the cast of Billy Elliott had got lost on the inner ring road. Likewise, the cub scouts feared they had been drugged, abducted and transported to what looked like downtown Beirut.

Quickly the troop formed up into their Sixes and were applauded for this show of efficient para-militarism. Caps were on straight, shirts a bit creased from the bus ride but tidy, grey shorts remaining starched and pressed, white knee length socks and garters impeccable. Their bright shiny shoes dazzled all those assembled. In contrast the audience were mostly clad in hoodies, jogging bottoms and fluorescent trainers but not dissimilar in being a type of uniform.

The cubs were shown to their makeshift dormitory at the Neighbourhood Office and were all asleep by 9.30pm which resulted  in the scheduled barbecue, disco and dance-off competition being a bit of a damp squib.

A couple of the cubs were evacuated by helicopter during the night suffering from chronic homesickness.

Hopes for a midnight feast were cancelled out of fear of attracting attention from what sounded, to their unaccustomed tender ears, like a riot on the estate when it was just a normal evening in the Borough.

The first day went surprisingly well. The cooking of a healthy breakfast was demonstrated 'al fresco' although more of a continental style than a Full English. This was followed by a session at the Municipal baths where the cubs were seen to retrieve whole bricks from the deep end whilst in their pyjamas.

Lunch was a skillful display of knife skills in creating carrot and celery sticks, diced apple and other nutritious and budget type fare.

A five mile hike was commenced in the early afternoon after the cubs had partaken in a power nap but was abandoned within a few hundred yards due to acrid smoke drifting across the footpath from a torched stolen car. I-Spy Books in the possession of the Surrey contingent were hastily consulted but a burning Vauxhall Astra was not a point scoring item. A display of tracking was proposed. This rapidly disintegrated into a rescue of young boys from the boughs of trees after the Pit-Bulls and Rhodesian Ridgebacks which had been relied upon to leave a trail found alternative sport in pursuing screaming and hysterical individuals around the park.

The evening meal was a pre-cursor to a camp fire singsong. Hot dogs made from quorn sausages, Lasagne both meat and vegetarian options, quiche and vol-au-vents were magicked from nothing more than a Harrods Hamper. Health and Safety , or rather a bit of a run on the Borough Insurance Policy dictated that the camp fire consist of a light bulb with a draped piece of tinsel but the cubs gave a tremendous rendition of all the stock favourites. Most of the tunes were well known to the Hackney boys but their lyrics bore no resemblance to the official cub scout camp fire songbook in sentiment or downright politeness. There was a large accompanying fire after all when the petrol tank on the troop mini bus exploded as it stood unattended in preparation for the return journey.

It was not all one way in educational terms. The cub scouts had lived up to their motto of 'Be Prepared' by taking in everything they were shown and told by their hosts in the short time spent in the inner city environment.

St Chalfont by St Mary, the village, was soon to be afflicted by a bit of a crime wave. Thefts of lap tops and wallets from parked vehicles skillfully opened, stock going missing from the local shops during and after business hours, empty bottle and cans of strong alcohol deposited in the churchyard, prescription medecines being lost between pharmacy and Nursing Home.

The Constabulary were mystified by the crimes which only occurred every tuesday night. The youngsters of the affluent village were all accounted for on a tuesday being firmly resident in the scout hut and beyond all resonable suspicion.

Those approaching the premises through the churchyard may however have been surprised by the sound of a very loud and thumpy music system, empty packaging for various luxury goods and very raucous singing of camp fire songs in the style of those worst for wear from drink and drugs.

Lance Armstrong

I believe in Lance Armstrong.

I am totally appalled at how he has been victimised by the tongue waggers and self righteous on both sides of the Atlantic.

It is not in his moral fibre to take performance enhancing drugs because he is a fighter and this has been shown in his survival from a life threatening disease and in his attitude to his sport.

I remember watching him on TV win his first Tour de France Stage in 1993 at Verdun. I did not know who he was at that time or what reputation he had arrived at the race with as a rookie but his absolute class and character were abundantly clear for all enthusiastic followers of cycling to see. His win was masterful for someone so young. The combination of a great tactical mind and sheer pedal power.

He was the first real non-European cycling super star with global appeal. It was because of this that he was both envied and eyed with suspicion by the old established cycling nations of France, Spain, Italy, Belgium and Holland.

He was meticulous in his preparation for the Tour de France in particular and it was because he selected what he could race and be sure to win that he was criticised again by the tired and poorer performing Europeans who went for everything and came away usually with nothing. 

The plain and simple fact that he was the most drug tested rider in history and with no positive results is what I am holding up at the reason why I believe in Lance Armstrong. The Federal judgement to strip him of his career record has, to my mind, no grounding in fact and has arisen out of a typically Stateside witch hunt which is to innocent sportsmen and women as the US Foreign and Military Policy is to peaceful nations.

I quote directly from his statement of this week 

"Today I turn the page. I will no longer address this issue, regardless of the circumstances. I will commit myself to the work I began before ever winning a single Tour de France title: serving people and families affected by cancer, especially those in underserved communities. This October, my Foundation will celebrate 15 years of service to cancer survivors and the milestone of raising nearly $500 million. We have a lot of work to do and I'm looking forward to an end to this pointless distraction. I have a responsibility to all those who have stepped forward to devote their time and energy to the cancer cause. I will not stop fighting for that mission. Going forward, I am going to devote myself to raising my five beautiful (and energetic) kids, fighting cancer, and attempting to be the fittest 40-year old on the planet."

Lance Armstrong remains as an inspiration to me and many others not just in cycling but in the way he has conducted his life with dignity and a selfless attitude to others.

Wee hours of the night

The green coloured angling umbrella could withstand most forms of weather thrown at it. Sheltering beneath the broad reaching canopy gave protection against the wind as it skirmished along the course of the river, provided a refuge from precipitation and a cool shady spot in the heat of the day.

On one of our all night fishing trips the brolly assumed an altogether more practical role.

For those worse for drink after a long session at one of the bankside public houses, close by our favourite spot, the camouflage coloured material was indiscernible to their bleary eyes.

What we perceived to be an unnanounced, short but heavy and violent downpour was in fact the aforementioned relieving themselves above our heads.

I often wondered if the path of the urine, once airborne, registered as being unusual with the perpetrator. Far from acheiving a new personal best in height and distance, a popular post drinking session pastime al fresco, the golden rope of liquid would strangely hit an invisible forcefield and simply course to the ground.

Understandably this would afford a very low level of satisfaction from what could be expected to be a highlight of any particular evening out in a quiet provincial town.

Cursings and exclamations of disbelief would be heard. We drew in a sharp intake of breath waiting for the sound of the trouser front zip to be safely engaged ,without mishap, before the chuntering, grumbling and yet more cursing diminished into the dark of the night.

Post-urination was a wonderfully peaceful time marked by a strange steamy mist working its way over the cooler surface of the river and into oblivion.

Through Lounge Woodwork

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 an inaugural  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 entourage of 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 Central Hull to South America - or is it there to be discovered..........?

(This is a slighty amended version of a blog from 2011)

Like a Train

Me and The Boy felt guilty about the start of our bike trek today because we set off and did not need to even attempt to pedal for the first three miles.

The explanation for this prolonged freewheeling was in the name of our start point, simply "Peak". The highest point it had been for the Scarborough to Whitby Railway Line, part of the North East Rail network, having been commissioned in 1885 and operating for 80 years until falling victim to the ripping up of the tracks as part of a rationalisation in 1965.

The line did represent a major feat of engineering at the time because of the topographical challenges of the location, a large east facing crescent of hillsides sweeping down at its southern extremity to towering sea cliffs and to the north a similar vertical face of rock. In between, the bowl of land virtually unchanged to this day is a patchwork of dry stone walled fields, mere pocket hankerchief size compared to the wooden slopes battling to resist an attempt by the moorland heather and gorse to wrestle back their ancient territory.

A few farmsteads are dotted in the landscape and wedged in a crevice running up from the rock pool beach is the picturesque Robin Hoods Bay, fair heaving with holidaymakers and day trippers in the summer weeks and a few brave souls braving the stiff and chilly winds out of season.

As we rolled down the former course of the railway line, now called 'The Cinder Track' we saw the former and now sadly crumbling features of the former operations. At regular intervals in our rapid descent we passed under the beautiful brick arches of road bridges, each a work of art even for what would be a mundane role serving the isolated farms or just to allow the grazing stock to move from meadow to meadow. These are utilitarian single span or more ambitious multi arched examples dependant on the width of the man made cutting or the natural valley.

The track, although not misrepresenting its name in composition is rough and quite difficult to negotiate on a chunky tyred mountain bike. There are sections washed out in deep wounded gashes which can capture and channel even the most adept rider.

Where passing within a few feet of the front door of a farmhouse there are signs of impromptu repair in half bricks, hearth ash and other debris creating yet more reasons to concentrate in order to avoid a skid and fall. There are other more unpredictable obstructions in the form of walkers, ramblers and loose dogs who seem deaf to the crunchy sounds of a fast approaching bike and are, even when surprised by the squeal of brakes, slow to respond with a sidestep or a hop, skip and jump onto the rough verge, the humans doing so as well.

The relentless roll downhill is interrupted where the track is severed by a road and we have to perform a version of the Green Cross Code on two wheels before scooting across to resume. On either side of the track are steep drops, thickly planted from self seeding but illustrating the scale of the original earthworks and mass transient workforce to create such.

There is an overpowering smell of manure just outside Robin Hoods Bay although the caravan park and camping ground adjacent to the farmyard source are full and no one seems to be phased by the rich, sickly and organic odour.

Our first encounter with traffic is in the car park of the former RHB railway station. Vehicles are queueing awaiting the tell tale engaging of reversing lights amongst the parked cars to arouse excitement amongst the passengers that they may actually be able to stop and get out to enjoy the seaside atmosphere. We drift coolly past, weaving in and out of the line of vehicles and we enjoy the feeling.

We are now having to press down on the pedals hard to propel our bikes up a gradual slope as the course of the track heads towards Whitby. The dramatic seaward views have to be glimpsed quickly in order to concentrate on more rough surfaces and rocky protrusions. There are a few large ships out in the bay making their way no doubt northwards to Teesport or beyond.

There is brief respite from battling the incline on the rare levelling out but the trend is still to climb away from the red pantile and rosemary roofs of RHB. The track is now quite exposed and the breeze is welcome and refreshing. More caravan parks come into view within touching distance or speckling a lower slope towards the cliff top.

We struggle to open and close the five bar gates where the track is cut by the main Scarborough to Whitby Road and the beeping tone of the controlled crossing is one of the first non-natural sounds we have heard for a couple of hours. Hawsker Railway Station is now a bike hire and activity centre with a cafe and a few red and cream liveried NER carriages. The Boy is nearly knocked off the track by an elderly cyclist who is more interested in the rolling stock and not watching where he is going.

At last another downhill stretch but with more local residents than tourist types walking their dogs or pushing prams and buggies. They are at least more accustomed to sharing the cinder way with bikes and gracefully give way. We know that we are now deep into Whitby itself but the route is just beyond the western periphery of the built up area of the town and we do not actually see any houses or premises. The first structure we come across and actually cross is the tremendous stone built viaduct over the River Esk, but like the passengers on a train in the halcyon days of the line we are on the inside looking out and cannot appreciate the scale and grandeur of the design and craftsmanship. All we see is the inner face of the brick parapet but we do have a distinct sense of being at some height above the bottom of the valley.

We have cycled 11 linear miles from our starting point, according to the signage  but it feels considerably more taking into account our vertical movement up and down the gradients. In a bit of a showing off Me and The Boy cycle straight through the town centre. We feel like we are joint leaders in a competitive race but nevertheless we have to wait at the traffic lights to cross the single roadway of the harbour swing bridge. The town is overflowing with visitors and we pick our way through the pedestrians who insist on spilling out all over the narrow roads.

Unfortunately we have not finished our ride.

We are in fact only at the half way point and have to backtrack on the track to return to "Peak". The southward return leg is not repetitious at all as we are seeing new coastal and inland views and approaching the potholes and fissures from an altogether different angle. We do however become re-aquainted with most of the other users of the route as they themselves return to their starting points. We nod as nonchalant as we can.

The 8 miles from Whitby seem effortless to us as we have hit our second wind and have been rehydrated and revitalised by glucose drinks and chocolate bars.

However, the 3 mile section which had provided the dream start to our ride some 2 hours prior was now under our front wheels. It may have been a mere 1 in 39 gradient or expressed as a 2.5 degree incline but we felt that we had hit a sheer faced wall.

Our initial respect for the Victorian engineers behind the project was easily dismissed and we cursed them and their kind under our shortening breath. It was ironic that the staccato rhythm of our hatred provided the tempo and cadence that was perfect to tackle and conquer that shallow but nevertheless demanding slope and we were ecstatic and elated as we again scaled the heights in a whipped up cloud of powder dry cinder.

Children of the Corn

It is just not that amazing, this years Maize Maze.

The growing season has been poor for that particular crop in our local area. I am not sure why because everything else in the farmers fields has sprouted, flourished, thrived and borne much produce. It has, by all accounts, been a year of bumper yields for the soft fruits and the usual UK grown fare but not for Maize.

It may be the climate which will be quite different in this country from the main and traditional growing areas in other parts of the world. The very wet June may have done for the new sprouting shoots causing them to tread water rather than reach up to the leaden and heavy rain sodden cloudy skies.

It may be the soil composition. In this area it is mostly heavy clays which may not suit the temperament of a crop found more extensively in the mid west and southern United States.

It will certainly be the lack of nourishing sunshine but then again that is not at all surprising for a typical British summer.

The posters and hoardings advertising this years Maize Maze up the road on the way to Beverley did get me all excited because I am not too old or boring to appreciate the combination of a challenge and a terrifying experience amongst a crop that always seems to feature heavily in movies about aliens or strange cults and phenomena.

If I happen to drive past a thickly planted field of Maze I half expect to catch sight, in my headlights of a lizardy textured limb clad in a metallic sheen suit either stepping back in or stepping out with equal potential for horror and disbelief on my part. However, the disappointing growth of this years crop negates any rational or irrational feelings because the maize in question is only two feet high.

One parent was reported in the local newspaper as being a bit surprised by the stunted size of the maize but nevertheless was pleased that his young children could enjoy the intricacies of the pathways, cul de sacs and the overall disorientation but yet be in full, continuous and plain sight of their supervising adults or responsible persons.

I can sympathise with this feeling because Me and The Boy suffered a mutual panic attack a couple of years ago in a Maize Maze. The crop was fully developed to a height of about eight feet and as dense as a blackout curtain. It was also a very hot and stifling day and getting separated from those whom we had followed at first we realised that we were hopelessly lost.

Of course, with a head down charge in any direction we would have reached the car park, ice cream tent or the periphery of the maze with no particular difficulty apart from , that is, the chance of stumbling across a family of leathery skinned aliens engaged in some form of activity which may be commonplace on their planet of origin but considered anti-social or nefarious on ours.

The Rising Tide

The difference between average low and high tide levels in the River Humber is best appreciated on those stretches of the shore which are unprotected by hammered in steel shuttering, wire baskets some two cubic metres in size carefully packed with graded rocks and stones or the more formal wharfage and walling. On a low tide in summer there can be a difference of many vertical metres from the quiet lapping, muddy waters in the shallows leading to the sun lightened sandbanks and the first areas of vegetation on the north Humber bank.

Running westwards from the Humber Bridge through to Brough, away from the main urban and suburban areas which warrant flood defences (but for how much longer on economic and insurance criteria),  the shoreline has not changed much potentially since inhabited in pre-history and certainly not since records were maintained in the period from the Roman occupation. Brough was an important river crossing linking the major military road of Ermine Street with York and territories beyond and was also a harbour for its Northern fleet in recognition of the strategic importance of the area. 

The river does drain around one fifth of England mainly through being fed by the major rivers of the Trent and Ouse and their many tributaries. As such the equivalent of a Roman motorway network of inland navigational possibilities. This fact alone illustrates the importance and power of such a watercourse and the potential threat of inundation.

A couple of years ago the Environment Agency posted out a detailed information bulletin to households along the floodplain . This may have been immediately discarded by residents as junk mail or viewed as an attempt for that Governmental organisation to justify its own existence and vast budget. The title of the publication was quite chilling and should have resulted in mass hysteria and panic amongst those it was intended for. Residents may have been in denial but surely "Planning for the rising tides" can only have been construed as an ominous warning.

The Environment Agency are beyond criticism on the matter of coastal and tidal river flooding. They have stated definitively that it will occur in the next 25 years and beyond as a consequence of climate change.

Their main problem is to convey this message to a public who cannot visualise the impact of a rise in sea levels and how it will undoubtedly affect their homes, workplaces and livelihoods. There is a strategy in place under current budgetary and feasibility constraints which has been reported as committing protection measures to 99 per cent of those living around the Humber Estuary. The commitment is qualified as providing a good standard of protection but no guarantees.

The last major inundation from a tidal surge was in 1953 with resultant loss of life and significant breaches in defences  to much of the East Coast of England . In the interim the population centres have expanded as has industry and commerce within improved defences but a one in one hundred event in flood terms would be catastrophic.

Around 90,000 hectares of land are at risk and a population of around 400,000 although this number mostly reside in the main regional centres of Hull and Grimsby.

Flood storage areas are already in place. These are large tracts on agricultural land that have been purchased by the Environment Agency. In effect they form a secondary line of defence behind existing measures. In the circumstances of high tides the storage areas are opened up to relieve pressure along the course of the main river. In relation to the stretch of river between North Ferriby and Brough it has been admitted that it may be difficult to provide protection and existing defences may fail. In places there is no real bank or protective difference to restrain the river.

Me and The Boy, on our mountain bikes, left the comparative luxury of the loose dressed potholed and rubbish strewn lane and dropped down gently onto the shoreline. We would be able to appreciate the river and its pressing issues at first hand.

A heavy muddy strip is exposed on low tide. The dense clay adheres to the feet and bicycle tyres to such an extent that no forward motion is possible without difficulty. Upon meeting the warm summer sun the clay quickly starts to set as solid as concrete and frantic efforts have to be made to chip it away using bits of driftwood or stranded plastics found around our encrusted shoes.

There is a slight feeling of panic as we ourselves begin to sink into the mud.

We are reassured by other wheel tracks ahead in that someone else has attempted to negotiate what is designated on the map as part of the Trans Pennine Route. They do however stop abruptly. We have visions of being progressively immersed in the fetid mess if this fate befell those before us.

Our bikes are immobile now. We use our own limited scope of movement to lift up and carry the bikes but they have doubled in weight from the gloopy conglomerate now speckled with loose stones, vegetation and litter. It is with some relief that we reach actual land and spend a good twenty minutes cleaning the brakes, chainsets and gears as best we can. We resume our ride but gone is the mechanical whirr of efficient machines and replaced with a squeaking, grating and mineral based sound .

With The Boy taking the lead I have to dodge the occasional explosive release of hard set nodules of mud and rocks from the rotational action of his rear wheel.

Gradually we leave behind the primitive shoreline and find great comfort in a more defined levee. This becomes a substantial parapet topped brick wall which must be at least two miles long and intended to protect the British Aerospace Factory from the natural threat of tidal flood.

There are large areas of newly built housing close by but surely the residents cannot be oblivious to the potential for the rise in tides. A low cloud of smoke from many a barbecue suggests that evacuation and abandonment of their homes is not at the top of their list of things to do. Not today anyway.

Pinstripe Deckchair

I was trying to blend into the crowd  milling around the Promenade at Bridlington but my pin striped two piece business suit was a bit conspicuous. Day trippers gave me a wide berth thinking that I was a police officer, or someone who may entice them to sign up to something, Utility or Charity based. The shopkeepers and Arcarde workers eyed me with suspicion in case I was from the Council, the Performing Rights Society or Trading Standards.

A few small children in buggies pointed at me expecting me to produce a rabbit from under the folds of my jacket in an impromptu magic show as they had been made aware that the circus was in town for the season.

I was firmly in work mode and was genuinely surprised to find that other people were actually on their annual holidays.

It was not the best of the weather for a friday in August. For most of the visitors this would be the last full day before packing up and going home. A disappointing day. Gawdy coloured shorts were just visible below drab coloured cagoules and wind cheaters. The showers had abated for a few moments but it was not worth stripping off and stowing away the bulky jackets. Flip flops and sandals made a soggy sound on the puddled pavements. Faces were equally dour and grumpy. I could read the thoughts of mums and dads that Bridlington was not that dissimilar to Leeds on a damp day apart from the beach and sea.

Still, a British coastal vacation was after all an institution that had to be tolerated like most other institutions. It was their duty to walk up and down the prom and harbour many times every day, play a bit of crazy golf, hire a deck chair and eat batter encased foods before being allowed back to the Guest House or out of town caravan park.

In addition to the footfalls there was the raucous tannoy system from the sea-front funfair. I was early for my appointment at the Alcazar Holiday Flats and found a bench in an ornamental gardens to sit and wait for the keyholder to get through the pedestrian and slow, congested road traffic. It was just across from the dodgems and waltzers. I soon found that the patter and musical accompaniement to entice visitors onto the rides was on a short loop of Michael Jackson, Fat Boy Slim, a pop anthem I recognised from the 1980's and the raving and ranting of the bulky lad in the booth selling the tokens for the attractions.

The Alcazar formed part of a sweeping Victorian Crescent of great grandeur at that time but now somewhat ragged and tired. The lodging houses gratefully receiving passengers from the railway station will have been well patronised by the city dwellersand industrial workers of West Yorkshire  but were now part vacant, boarded up or advertising cheap rate accommodation of flatlets and bedsits. One of the ten or so 5 storey buildings was putting up a determined fight to survive recession and staycation trends having been the subject of significant investment in boutique style rooms. I knew however that it was being marketed for sale on an internet business site at well below the recent refurbishment budget.The peak season in Bridlington. at about 12 weeks, gave little chance to claw bck a financial return. The neighbouring building was being maintained by the workforce of a Social Housing Provider and was the best of the bunch. The upper floors did have a sea view if you ignored the regular intrusion of the swinging pirate boat in the amusement park in the foreground.

The gardens followed the sweeping line of the Crescent,. 100 years ago it may have been necessary to compete gracefully for a seat in the gardens as part of the great seaside experience  but on this day I was quite alone.  There continued the regular passage of holidaymakers across the entrance on some determined quest for entertainment, food or souvenirs but with no glancing interest whatsoever in the manicured lawns, tropical shrubbery and pavings.

I felt awkward and even more conspicuous in my situation. The keyholder for the flats picked me out easily so there was at least one advantage in looking so much out of place and time.

The Alcazar was in a sorry state.

On the upper floors those mystical things not openly seen, baby pigeons were in residence flapping against the sealed up windows as though trapped but I could clearly observe the scudding grey clouds through a large breach in the roof. Greenish black mould clung onto the plaster covings further speckled with bird whitings and graffitti from previous trepassers. Floorboards had been heaved up in the search for lead pipework and cables. Mounting brackets on the walls were hanging loosely having been ripped apart with the forcible removal of multiple radiators. Internal doors hung sadly on loose hinges. The deep section skirtings and architraves were creased and soft with rot and decay. Ceramic plaques remained on the outer door of each former holiday flat. Primrose, Heather, Daffodil, Daisy, Petunia, Forsythia, Tulip and  Freesia. Peaceful and fragrant names for a building so far now removed from its Halcyon days. The smell was also overpowering. Damp, humid, organic and fusty.It was a genuine relief to step back out into the open air and the hubbub of a seaside environment.

I celebrated completing my job with a metre long liquorice whip purchased for the extortionate price of £1 from a concession next to the dodgems. I could not stretch to 3 for £2.50. It was difficult to grip, greasy and slippery from countless days or weeks of being displayed and possibly handled by the public. The shelf with the mass of brighlty coloured candy strands was just about at a level for small hands to be thrust out from a buggy before being drawn back quickly under parental chiding.

It was strange but, sweets in hand, I felt that I had instantly blended in with the holiday crowd with the sensation of  intense happiness and contentment.

Getting Kicked on Route 66

National Route 66 is a cycle path linking the two great maritime port cities of Hull on the east coast and Liverpool on the Atlantic Gateway.

Me and the Boy got out our mountain bikes and rode a part of the 129 or so mile journey. Tell the truth we did five and a half miles and then back again, so technically still only five and a half miles of the route although we congratulated ourselves on the accumulated eleven miles.It was only a week after The Boys' big crash, bang, wallop and he had done well to overcome his fears of bike wheels and uneven ground.

I certainly think we had tackled one of the most challenging sections, comprising urban landscape, derelict and active docklands, part built retail park and riverside path. Within these sections we encountered further hazards.

At the urban end, closest to the city centre embarcation point we were thwarted in our journey by palisade fencing and temporary barriers across what should have been a clear run. This was because of regeneration of the central area of Hull. It does take some considerable column inches in the local newspapers and papering of lamp posts with Statutory Notices of the stopping up of a Public Right of Way and to all intents and legal purposes this had been done to the letter. It was just that someone had forgotten to set up or otherwise indicate a diversionary route around said obstructions. We were left to our own initiatives to devise a circulatory and tortuous loop in order to get back to within a couple of feet from where we had been unceremoniously halted in reasonably full pedal about twenty minutes before.

The active docklands were similarly protected against trespass. Where once you could walk clear across the dock on the decks of moored vessels there was now clear water apart from one coastal steamer and a duck-egg blue painted Fisheries Patrol Ship. However, the shed and quays were alive and full of large rolled steel girders, wrapped timbers from Russia and large mounds of unidentified minerals. Fork lift trucks and tracked dock cranes were at rest after a busy day of logistical movements. Me and The Boy had a birds eye, or seagulls eye view from the elevated walkway which had been built above the vast undulating concrete roof of the old trawling sheds.

Next, the derelict docklands. Large buildings of a former Hull based shipping line,  at one time the largest privately owned fleet in the world, were now an empty shell, holes in the roof the home of pigeons, holes in the glazed apertures indicating it to be the playground of the local kids. We grimaced as we zig-zagged in an attempt to avoid the shards of broken glass and the lumps of fallen masonry. The air dried flowers at the memorial to lost trawlermen were a striking sight of former life in a wasteland. Another unsafe lock gate had been segregated from public access. The detour, over worn engineering brick cobbles, led past a lush green meadow although we knew it was actually an abandoned, silted up and overgrown dock basin. Various large hoardings promised redevelopment for housing and trade but they were green with lichen , wind savaged and representing only empty promises.

The retail park, resembling any other retail park anywhere in the country was next. The signage was for DFS, SCS, various warehouse operations. pets at home, computer and electrical sales. Standing apart in style and about a 1000 years in form, the gloss green pantiles of the roof of a Chinese Restaurant. Between the picture windows overlooking the river and the cycle path a young man, worst for wear at about 5.30pm was urinating in what he thought was a concealed corner. We rode past, eyes front. A few feet beyond we had the misfortune to pass through a small pile of vomit. Yet within a few more pedal revolutions we were amongst families on an early-bird tea at a pub, a converted former warehouse oblivious to any personal drama enfolding near by.

We left commerce and recreation behind as we reached the riverside path. A century earlier this was known as Cod Farm where the filleted fish were hung out on lines to dry naturally. After a brief use as a go-karting venue it was derelict but still wind swept. A few anglers were taking advantage of the high tide with equally high expectations although the most likely catch would be a slimey, wriggling eel.

Me and The Boy pedalled on with the Humber Suspension Bridge in clear sight. The track was narrow and rutted. We would certainly bear the scratches and scars from the brambles and thorns which threatened to overwhelm the path. The traffic on the A63 was thunderous being seperated from us only by a rickety wooden fence, breached in places and plugged with fluorescent cones.

We were close to home now. The blue signs for Route 66 pointed encouragingly for the remaining one hundred and twenty three and  a half miles but we felt we had experienced enough life in a small part of just one day.

Independence for Yorkshire

There has been recent talk about Independence and a split from the United Kingdom not by the Scots, Welsh or Northern Irish but by the potential Republic of Yorkshire.

Dubbed the Socialist Republic by the Union bashers in the 70's and 80's this proud county, God's Own Country indeed has found new emphasis and confidence following unprecedented success at the London Olympics. There has been much talk about the tally of Yorkshire medals exceeding that of whole Nation States and with it a resurgence of all things Yorkshire.

There has been the mention of Yorkshire on US Prime Time TV recently with its own brand of tea forming part of a sub plot in the terrorist drama Homeland. A mobile tea-bar has also been driving many thousands of miles around the States reuniting ex-pats with a proper brew and educating the natives in what really constitutes the ritual of serving tea.

The county of Yorkshire has everything to suit separation and existence as an autonomous state.

A wide choice for capital city from historic York to cosmopolitan Leeds, multi cultural Sheffield and the Gateway to Europe of Hull. Plenty of natural resources both under and above the ground ,some bloody good exposed and windy  hillsides on which to position wind turbines, strong tidal rivers for further power generation and a good arrangement of existing bio fuel power stations. The population is hard working in all sectors, somewhat dour, non materialistic and straight talking.

The geography is amongst the most varied and spectacular in the world from the North Sea Coast to the high Moors, the flatlands of the great glacial vales, rolling rural acres of wolds and upland forests.

In fact everything is in place to go it alone.

Everything apart from a stirring anthem. I was a bit alarmed today to hear about the threat of extinction from the memory and physche of Yorkshire folk of perhaps the strongest candidate for the role- "On Ilkley Moor ba'tat".

I am not a Yorkshireman, although my wife has called me "tight"on numerous occasions which coming from a Hull born Lass almost elevates me to honorary status even though I hail from the genteel Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire.

I grew up singing the song on a regular basis as it was a mainstay of the Scout movement and a rousing tune for around the campfire. My father sang it, My Uncle David who was a scout with my father will have known the words by heart and I would wager he could still sing it now in its entirety. I have also heard renditions of it on the football terraces but apparently it has fallen out of the public songbook in the last generation.

I blame its potential demise on the health and safety culture. Those who have been familiar with the stirring and emotional lyrics and parump, parump tune  and who may have been willing to volunteer in the Scouting or Guiding movement have been deterred by the rigours of meeting ridiculously stringent insurance requirements , risk assessments and other criteria but in the absence of which in my youth I was not conscious of being in peril, in harms way or close to being abducted or abused.

The anthemic value of the song has therefore skipped a generation and a danger point has been reached. Fortunately this was recognised by representatives of the fledgling Yorkshire nation and a determined effort has been made to revive the Ilkley Moor legend. Mass choirs have recently sung it, Brian Blessed ( a coal miners son from Yorkshire) and Lesley Garrett amongst others have recorded versions and alternative rap and rhythmic beats have been developed to excite the interest of the younger generations.

What is the charm of the song?.

Well, it is a morality tale, a caution to those young bucks who would go out on the bleak Ilkley Moor without a hat on. The moorland jaunt was for the purposes of recreation and love and the object of desire, that  Mary Jane did have a bit of a reputation for being an outdoorsy type. Apparently the narrator of the song may himself have had designs on said Mary Jane in trying hard to warn off the hero of the song. No hat- a very significant risk of contracting a cold and in those days, pre-Night Nurse and Lemsips, this could be fatal through chill, fever and pneumonia.

Ilkley Moor was also touted as a place for being buried and this will have induced considerable fear and trepidation in a society where death was still a great taboo. To add further fear the narrator threatens that 'tworms' will come and eat thee up. I assume that 'tworms' are not genetically mutated subterranean monsters but probably refer to ' the worms'- my fragile comprehension of the Yorkshire language and dialect falls a bit short here. The Moor is also a place of free roaming ducks who, after feasting on 'tworms'will themselves be ritually slaughtered and eaten by the friends and acquaintances of the witless subject of the song. You can see where this is leading can't you. Cannibalism by proxy. The song does finish on a happy and comic note in that amongst the to-do, the grieving, organic decomposition and an ultimate food chain we observe that it is place where the ducks play football. Nice image although implausible for that species.

Sentiment aside it is still a very stand to attention worthy tune. If I have earned a vote from my 33 years of naturalisation in Yorkshire(subject to passing the examination), and added two of three children to the roll-call, it would definitely be for that song on any Referendum Day. I just hope that Mary Jane does not come forward to give an alternative and less than glowing account of what really went on up on the Moors- hat or no hat.

Gary Lineker earns a packet

There cannot be many foodstuffs which are as eagerly anticipated and satisfying as a bag of potato crisps.

This is a strong opinion that I maintain even now that I am well into my 5th decade. I should perhaps abstain from eating them as much as I do on health and dietary grounds but it is difficult to give up such a tasty and gratifying snack.(Personal Best- 5 packets in succession). I have stopped reading the nutritional information, depressing as it is, and indeed advocate an alternative form of labelling in the form of increasingly smiley faces to indicate the expected levels of pure happiness, well being and contentment.

It is true that a little bit of what you fancy does you good, well unless you are into Russian Roulette or equally and potentially drastic endeavours and activities. My dedication and loyalty as a consumer to the crisp manufacturing sector is in spite of the disappointment and horror that I experienced when younger in a supervised visit and tour around our local potato crisp factory.

As an indication of how long ago this was I can remember that a standard bag of ready salted was two new pence. The packets were, granted, smaller than those currently available. They were also purchased in quite brittle materials and not the high sheen, foil lined for freshness type that we are used to today. There was also quite a limited choice in flavours with the most exotic being confined to salt and vinegar and cheese and onion and not the bewildering range of more recent times.

Most larger towns seemed to have their own crisp manufacturers and with no one concern dominating to the extent of the Mega Corporation that is Walkers and their subsidiaries. The factory I visited was run by Rileys in Scunthorpe. It was a non descript industrial shed on a large commercial estate. As soon as you stepped off the bus there was the unmistakable odour of hot cooking oil. This soon became overwhelming and for many weeks after the smell persisted in my hair and clothing even after many baths, showers and laundry cycles.

The production line was short and noisy. A large covered delivery bay was strewn with soil encrusted potatoes which were tipped from vehicles and unrestrained from rolling about and becoming detached from the main large mound. Stray spuds were rounded up by welly boot and skillfully kicked up onto the pile. A further damp, musty and organic smell seemed to be in competition with the dominant odour. From the unceremonious pile of spuds a group of workers shovelled them up jnto what resembled a large washing machine where they were bumped, ground and swilled to remove the caked on debris of field and farm.

The process also abraded the coarse outer skins to leave the bright white flesh exposed to the elements. The process was accelerated at this stage when any delay would lead to the discolouring of the now raw material.

The next stage was fearful to behold . A mass of whirling and razor sharp blades swiftly and efficiently lacerated the pale nuggets of lumpy potato into thin slivers.A few were manually finished by a team of ladies whom you would do your best to avoid on a dark evening, if they were taking their blades home with them after their shift. This was the money making part with a single spud, of negligible individual value, being made into many hundreds of value added slices to eventually be sold by weight at a significant mark-up and profit margin.

Into the bubbling cauldron of antique, dull and cloudy oil went the sliced discs with an automated quick searing cooking process before being lifted out in true fat fryer style to drain and dry.

The flavouring was perhaps the most disappointing and unremarkable thing to experience. The cooked crisps were segregated into three smaller production lines and more workers with more shovels simply threw on the dry salt and the brightly coloured powdered chemicals that simulated the experience of the required natural taste very effectively.

The manner in which the crisps were handled throughout the process readily explained the regular discovery of various foreign bodies and debris at the bottom of the packet at that last moment when it would be up-ended in order to extricate the last possible fragments from the tight inside corners.

However, by then it was too late to prevent the bits and pieces of non-potato based entities from entering the digestive system.

Tea Total

There is a tipping point for everything.

Depending upon which publication holds more sway, erstwhile ones like New Scientist or The Spectator or less so but more entertaining ones like Punch and The Dandy we have either passed or are fast approaching the tipping point for our natural resources of oil, coal, natural gas and sustainable forested fuels. This is a matter of grave concern for our current generation and somewhat more for those that will follow us if we do not pioneer alternative and viable energy sources now.

However, nothing is as serious as my discovery within the last two minutes that we, as a household, have depleted our supply of tea bags to one single, rather sorry and ragged example. The situation has not been entirely unexpected but we have kidded ourselves in more recent weeks that our massive over supply, gifted or stock-piled at Christmas and in the dark early months of the year would last out well into the summer.

For some inexplicable reason we have taken to consuming vast amounts of tea, ordinary tea with milk. This represents a revolutionary trend and I cannot think why. Of course, the serving of a hot beverage is a stalwart of hospitality and politeness. The spike in tea drinking has not however been prompted by sudden influx of visitors and guests. We have just started to drink more. Psychologists discuss......

We have previously championed the more exotic teas such as the washy and tasteless but healthy green version,spicy and hot aftertasting lemon and ginger infusions and flirted with a fruity selection .This being known to the wider family has resulted in the earlier months of the year in a completely full to bursting cupboard of brightly coloured packets of bags, strings attached or not, organic loose blends, some aristocratically named and fancy packaged teas, some mixes that should never have been attempted and a few jokey and rather irreverent versions such as 'Builders Tea'.

My Mother in Law has acted as the supreme guardian of our tea-caddy and has regularly brought in large boxes of Yorkshire Tea, PG Tips and Tesco's own brand and these have been gratefully received but subsequently plundered in a shameful and extravagant manner. We did slip her a cup of Earl Grey in error after the bags got mixed in with the standard tea. Her reaction was grounded on a love of real tea and short of spitting it out she was most disgruntled with the fragranced cuppa put before her. It was not, she insisted, what should be served under the name of a tea.

In response to the domestic emergency of reaching our last tea bag I have had to revert to drastic measures. At the very back of the cupboard, only reachable by standing on a kitchen chair, I discovered a small rectangular box of loose breakfast tea. It was necessary for me to read the instructions for use because I had gone soft and of addled mind by having been used to just throwing a perforated tea bag in the pot and placing all my faith and trust in the manufacturers for a tolerable strength, colour and reviving experience.

One heaped teaspoon per cup did not seem enough but I followed the recommended amount and the ritualistic practices of warming the pot, allowing 3 to 4 minutes for mashing and then pouring carefully in the absence of a strainer. On reflection it was the best cuppa of the day, the week, the month and possibly the whole year to date. As I downed the last dregs from the mug I came across the residue of the loose leafed tea and remembered why tea bags had come to dominate the market. They are just less messy and so much more convenient.

That last tea bag will be cherished for its qualities, however grubby and stained it may appear....well until the next tea break at about 9.45pm. We may, as a family,  have to fight over it but in a harsh, selfish world that is to be expected. Now, what can we expect when the oil does run out?

Estate of Mind

I have only ever bought one car, brand spanking new.

Business had been good for a couple of years and I was confident enough to make a financial commitment and simultaneously credit-worthy enough with the bank to qualify for a loan.

I had been seduced by the sights and sounds of the racing Volvo's in the British Saloon Car Championships of 1994. Not just ordinary Volvo's but, surprise , surprise the 850 Estate model which had both shocked and surprised the motor racing world by dominating the series even against the pure bred and pedigree marques of Alfa Romeo, BMW, Honda and Ford.

It was a stroke of genius for the marketing guru's at the immensely conservative Swedish manufacturer. I expect that the first person in that department to propose developing and entering an estate car in such a competitive series immediately lost any sauna privileges and their IKEA discount card. It was a revolutionary move but inspirational. The vehicles, rumoured to be whittled from a single piece of scandinavian timber, had suffered the brunt of perpetual jokes about being dependable but ultimately boring. The typical customer base for a Volvo estate car included tweed jacketed intellectuals, accountants with an eye on residual values, equestrian types and lets face it, anyone at all fuddy duddy and predictable.

The racing Volvo estate cars were a revelation in that they were so far removed from the versions available to the consumer in terms of rip roaring performance and aggresion on the track but yet provided the role model for a new generation of aspirational Volvo drivers. I was in that targeted demographic.

However, I was interested in the 850 Estate because it would accommodate my wife, soon to be three offspring, 2 dogs and all the support structure and accoutrements that go with the regular movements of a mini-civilisation.

Being a prospective purchaser of a brand new Volvo was an interesting experience. The sales team at the local dealership went into overdrive. Nothing was impossible to promise or acheive and I can honestly say that they did not fail or come up short in anything for me as a new customer and during my subsequent 13 year love affair with the brand.

As soon as I had placed the order I became not a number but a Surname to the Volvo production line in Sweden. I was, I was assured and fully believed, allocated a specific day, hour and session of the manufacturing process of the factory. To the workers it was Mr Thomsons car that was taking shape. Whether etched on the chassis in the ultimate in personalisation or translated into a unique barcode I was an intimate friend of the assembly team. An invitation to the corporate cabin in the woods would surely be in the post.

The specification to ensure that the Thomson family were safe, air conditioned ,comfortable and segregated from two boisterous and often smelly hounds was in play and would be sure to be implemented as though we were standing there and supervising in person.

That moment upon seeing the vehicle M221 EKH on the garage forecourt seconds after being delivered was as close as I have ever been to swooning over an inanimate lump of metal on four wheels.

The car exceeded all expectations and met all of its requirements and demands from a large family unit.

It seemed like no time at all before I was taking a photograph of the mileometer as it ticked over to 100,000 miles. I also experienced that wonderful feeling of driving a car on which all finance had been paid off, after 7 years and by then, over 140,000 trouble free miles travelled.

The inevitable selling process was a bit traumatic. Boring people insisted on taking a leisurely test drive and asking why I had not fitted a tow bar given that they were, without exception, caravanners. I could stand the inane comments and tyre kicking no longer and was happy to do a part exchange deal with my best pals at the Volvo garage. Amazingly, the acquisition of a nearly new, garnet red (not pink- Alice!) turbo charged estate car replacement did not involve the exchange of any monies whatsoever because I had simply run in the old model ready for many decades of ongoing faithful service.

Even now, taking into account that M221 EKH would be some 18 years old and a million miles on the clock, I still feel lovestruck palpitations whenever I see a blue, square fronted Volvo estate coming into view packed to the headlinings with children, fenced in animals and parents looking like they were on the move with all their precious possessions in the safest place in the whole wide world.

Charity begins........

The English football season is starting to re-emerge from its summer break, even allowing this year for the World Cup and the seemingly endless early rounds of pre-competition games for the seemingly pointless lower echelon of european tournaments. The press agencies are spinning stories which have had difficulty in getting column inches and airtime in the close-season. The hype has begun again.

The realisation that a new season is upon us comes with the Charity Shield Match. It is taking place today. This was always a bit of a non-event. From memory during my childhood it was rarely televised and also poorly reported. Apart from the participation of the winners of the League and FA Cup from the previous season I am not sure what role, function or purpose it served. Even the Charitable aspect was never really explained at any time.

I was, in my 11th year, absolutely obsessed with football. It had really started as an all engrossing thing in 1970 with the World Cup and my quest to fill up the book of collectors cards for all of the main squad members. It was the Brazil team of that time that caught my imagination and fascination. An exotic mix of skillful, athletic and charismatic players which was so much in contrast to the dour, drab, characterless and, frankly, old looking contemporaries of the English teams. I lived, breathed, talked and dreamed football.

I did follow Chelsea at that time but I think my main motivation was the playing kit, especially the white stripe flash on the side of the team issue shorts, again a burst of colour in a black and white world. My first ever kit was however Liverpool and I recall the oval profile cardboard container which my parents bought from the town sports shop containing the bright red Umbro made kit. It was very, very red with only the thinnest dog collar in white, a bit  like our vicar's. I lived in that strip for weeks and months. I could soon reel off the full Liverpool team from Clemence, Lawler, Lindsay, etc through to Smith, Lloyd, Heighway, Hall, Toshack and of course Kevin Keegan.

As a tenuous link with Kev we had moved, as a family to a town close to the Steel Manufacturing town of Scunthorpe. Kevin Keegan had been discovered as a talent on the playing field by Scunthorpe United and spared a working life down the coal mines of South Yorkshire around Doncaster.

Keegan was a mini-powerhouse. A bustling, frizzy permed haired striker of a style not really seen in British football. It was not surprising that a good part of his career was spent in the German Bundesliga where he fitted in well in all aspects of a fast paced game and fashions of the period. He was a prolific talent, play-maker and goalscorer.

Imagine my shock and horror when Keegan my hero was sent off for fighting in, of all things, the 1974 Charity Shield match.

The match was being broadcast on the radio as our family were driving down to Somerset for our summer holiday. It was a hot, sultry day. The whole family sweltered in the VW Estate Car.

Liverpool against Leeds United was always going to be a niggly, competitive game. It must have been difficult for the 22 players to get motivated for a Wembley game after a long, lazy summer break and the match was labouring on throught the first half.

I could not believe my ears when the commentator described the boxing match, scuffle or handbagging between Keegan and the equally diminuitive Billy Bremner. Both of them were respected figures in the game but all was forgotten in the melee. The two players did not stop at the fisticuffs. They both took off their shirts and threw them down on the pitch. The double sending off was headline news at a quiet time in the sporting calendar but had significant after-tremors in football and through the media and public. An 11 match ban and a fine was imposed on the miscreants.

It was a very ugly incident. Over the next decade there followed equally disgraceful behaviour by so called fans and followers in the English game as though the foundations holding up the beautiful game had been blown apart on that sunny afternoon in august.

Luke and Learn

It is the last but one day of the London Olympics and there begs the question- what will we do when they finish?.

We as a nation have put aside our petty differences and media induced indifference to being the host country and have embraced the whole concept of the games.

We have realised that, yes, we are quite good at sports. I contend that we have always been there or thereabouts on the world stage but it has only been through the application of science and technology that our athletes have been able to realise this.

We have always championed the enthusiastic amateur and underdog. It has been ok to just have a go in true British Bulldog spirit but we have at least recognised that the amateur or part time approach is no longer good enough. I do not advocate an engineered presence but just that natural skill, ability and talent does need a helping hand at the best of times.

The Pride of Hull, Luke Campbell, fights for a Gold Medal in just over 2 hours time from now. The coach at his boxing club said that the lean mean fighting machine of today was in fact quite a chubby awkward kid when he first turned up. Boxing gave the lad a feeling of confidence and he has not looked back since. It has been the making of the man and the City of Hull wish him the best.

Postnote.

He did it!!!!!!

Crash, Bang, Wallop

The Boy was unfortunate to fall off his mountain bike on the dustiest, most loose stone based section of our ride yesterday evening.

It all happened so quickly and I just avoided running him over myself as he tumbled right in my path. There are two approaches to the period immediately following a crash. One is to leap up like a temporarily stunned and floored prize-fighter and laugh it off even though there can be some considerable pain and discomfort. The other is to lie still and wait until the Medics arrive. The Boy was firmly in the former category even though his injuries did look nasty.

The enveloping, choking white powdery dust gave him the aura of a ghost. I had seen that whole look from archive films of the Paris-Roubaix Cycle Race when they had been run after an unusually, for Northern Europe, dry Spring and what would normally be thick gloopy mud would be stirred up into a fine particle suspension permeating into every pore and clothing fold.

A reddening could be seen on his top lip, chin, forearms and legs where the abrasive gravel had stripped away the skin. There was no actual flow of blood on the lesions. It had coagulated immediately in the dry warm early evening air and encouraged by the fine cementatious ingredients active in his own personal dust cloud. The mix would soon start to harden and give the sensation of a stiffening of the muscles and sinews.

The Boy stood up, bravely coping with obvious hurtings. It dawned on me that he was no longer a small child, likely to burst into justified tears but a young man with strength and determination not to be affected by such a traumatic shock to his system and his growing confidence on two wheels.

We all stood around not sure what to do. The bike lay partly on the track and amongst the granite boulders which separated the path from the bank of the Estuary. Just a few seconds before the crash I had been pointing out to The Boy a beige coloured house far away on the opposite side of the river which we had ridden past nonchalantly and innocently just 48 hours before. Perhaps this moment of innattention from a forward outlook had been a catalyst to his front wheel getting stuck in a long ugly fissure in the track where a few days of prolonged drought had cracked and ruptured the otherwise level surface into a treacherous groove from which there was no escape. There was no chance to steer out of the channel and the adverse camber had caused the dramatic spill.

From one moment of blissful outdoor activity we had been thrown into a state of complete disarray. One of our group volunteered to go for help and rode off back towards civilisation, a mile or so away through the buddleia bushes and early season brambles. The Boy started to straighten up and with a few grimaces and gritty spits was able to make a start on the long walk back to where the help would hopefully arrive.

I followed the walking wounded leading our two bikes by the handlebar stems. The track was now quite busy with riders, dog walkers and joggers and they upped their own speed upon seeing the gory parade of the injured and dismounted.

I was surprised that no-one asked if we were alright but then we were clad in our biking gear and looked  seasoned and experienced to an extent that falling off would be regarded as an occupational hazard to onlookers.