Silent Vigil

It was a thing of great beauty and a symbol of both reconciliation and shared suffering.

All that now remains is a tall, slim stone pedestal, some 3 metres high looking forlornly towards the River Humber. It used to support and elevate a bronze statue, 'Voyage'  which leaned into the windswept landscape and represented a call out over the sea in memory of British sailors who perished in the bleak Icelandic waters over past centuries.

Significantly the statue was commissioned by the people of the Icelandic town of Vik who were often called upon to rescue and provide sustenance to crews which ran aground or foundered in the North Atlantic waters. The sister statue by the sculptor Steinunn Thoraninsdottir remains at vigil on the Icelandic mainland.

The gesture does warrant considerable admiration in that our two seafaring nations were in a conflict in the Cod Wars of the 1970's with Icelandic gunboats mobilised against the British deep sea fishing fleet in a protectionist move over fishing stocks. In more recent years the collapse of Iceland's banking institutions caused a major loss of confidence and trust with the evaporation of the savings and long term financial security of private individuals, Local Authorities , Charitable concerns and many others from the British Isles. The hardships suffered by the Icelanders themselves are no less devastating to lives and livelihoods but have not been acknowledged, such has been the clamour for action and compensation from these shores.

The statue arrived in 2006 and became a major focal point and landmark for the river frontage, itself undergoing a major transition from industrial scale trawling and shipping to residential, business and leisure uses. Out of the corner of its left eye the statue will have been aware of the thrusting pinnacle of The Deep, the worlds largest submarinium, amd now a thriving tourist and research destination. The right eye will have seen families promenading about on the old Ferry Pier in front of the now converted ticket office building and enjoying an ice cream or a bag of chips from the small cafe.

The gradual and natural tarnishing of the bronze figure blended in well between the old Horsewash slipway, the brown waters of the River and the far Humber Bank in the distance. The weathering from spray and wind did not however diminish the symbolism or the statue. Unfortunately, it did not either serve to disguise the net value of the statue as scrap metal and overnight on the 24th July 2011 it was wrenched away from the plinth to disappear for good in the back of a van.
The theft was captured from some distance on a grainy CCTV system. The projecting figure is seen to waver under unforeseen forces and then fall from sight into the dark skies over the river.

At first the incident was thought to be a prank. Such prominent figures do disappear from time to time but return after being photographed in a holiday setting, discovered in nearby undergrowth or under the bed of a hungover student. Two men were arrested out of what was thought to be an involvement of 5 persons on that night. The statue is now believed to have been sold to be melted down for a paltry sum of £1500.

The Roll of Honour for the Lost Trawlermen of Hull currently extends to over 200 pages and in excess of 3000 untimely deaths in what has been regarded as one of, if not the most hazardous occupations.

On a purely materialistic calculation, completely disregarding the human element and all that a seafaring family life entails, the thieves of Voyage have attributed a nominal value of 50 pence on each and every lost soul and their memory to the scrapheap.

Beirut St Edmunds, Suffolk.

It is hard to say what actually started the war between our housing estate and the nearby council estate.

I have tried to pinpoint the catalyst for that particular day of running and pitched battles, intermittent and mischievous thefts and borrowings, sarcastic remarks and downright rudeness including sticking up two fingers at each other behind respective parents backs if we had been dragged away shopping and  from the designated front line .

We were savages.Completely overtaken by a hatred and mistrust that at it's core had no substance or justification at all. We had not fallen out over whose was the better football team, well lets face it given a choice between the local Ipswich Town and Norwich City we should have been embarrased even to admit an allegiance to teams respectively called 'The Tractor Boys' and 'The Canaries'.

There had been no festering hatred on the terraces of our teams because we could not afford to go to the games and anyway the grounds were just too far away and our parents were usually busy doing other things on a weekend.

The conflict was not over a girl. If you had seen the local talent, and I use talent in the best Circus Freak New Faces status terms you would have understood completely.

Scarcity of resources and the mad scramble to seize fresh water and fuel were not an issue. After all we all lived in houses with running water and my parents always made sure that the bunker for the coke for the Parkray solid fuel fire and back boiler was always kept topped up.

If there had been any jealously over access to staple fuels then we, on the private housing estate should be aggrieved as the newer and therefore more modern council houses had mains gas and central heating. They did not know what was involved in riddling and stoking a fire . No way.

Politics did not come into it at all. Panorama always clashed in the TV listings and lost out to The Waltons.Fighting for the affections of Mary Ellen Walton could have been a reason to go to war but she was much too old for us, at least 14.

Our two opposing battlegroups had no political affiliations but if pressed would probably vote the same way as we thought our parents did. Economics was a word that we as under 10's had never heard of or let alone could attempt to explain or even spell.

Socially we were closer than we probably realised. We did actually go to the same cub scout group, swimming club and junior choir not to mention that we mostly attended the same school. Our mums and dads worked hard to keep us clothed and shoed and none of us missed a meal or suffered from depravation or poverty. Some parents had been able to buy their own house but the loathsome burden of the thing called a  mortgage seemed to have as much potential for stress and cross words in our house as paying rent to the council did no doubt on the other estate.

Ours was not a conflict based on ethnic or cultural difference. That is unless you differentiated between those who watched Magpie instead of Blue Peter, How! rather than Blue Peter and Happy Days rather than Blue Peter.

We had not fallen out over trends in music. We of younger age either adopted the new sounds of our older siblings, if you thought Marc Bolan was any good, or just followed the tastes amongst the record collection of our parents. That would explain why even now I can, upon subliminal prompting, sing along word perfect to all Sandie Shaw songs.

Our fashion sense was, shall I say, post war even in the 1970's. Pudding basin or home trim haircuts, all of us including the girls, trousers with jodpur type loops at the bottom, stripey socks, usually only a choice of red, white or blue T shirts or full button up almost formal shirts and a cardigan. We looked more Amish than the Amish. Footwear was plimsolls or if we were really trying to express our under 10's character- bovver boots. These were soft high side canvas with a long lace up section and a round rubber ankle protector. Very nice to look at but the sole was so thin that the bottom of your feet burned after only a few minutes of walking. Those who had not been taught how to tie up their own laces soon fell, actually fell by the wayside. I laugh out loud now when I see the same footwear being sold for £80 plus and labelled as authentic Converse All Star.

In spite of the complete lack of any differences in our lives we still found ourselves face to face on the allotments which were a greenspace barrier between our housing estates and baying for blood.

Weapons were home made. The trusted longbow made out of a springy willow bough and with best grade parcel string or ten pound breaking strength fishing line. Arrows were bits of dry and hollow stick type plants. Some of the combatants had just bits of wood made to look like, well, bits of wood.. We were quite organic in our outlook and approach to weaponry. The stand off lasted for quite a while.

We were all happy to be foot soldiers. Promotion to a commanding role was not very popular because of the long hours and possibility of the Police coming to see your parents if you were named as ringleader. Some of the more nervy kids on each side accidentally let loose their arrows. These fell very short of the opposing front line if able to  leave the less tensioned strings and not fall directly at their feet. Mishaps did happen with mis-fired arrows actually going backwards and hitting the archer. Tears and snivelling on the front line is very demoralising at the best of times.

As I looked around at my comrades I realised that our actual numbers were very depleted and with desertions every few minutes. The same was happening amongst the council house army. Only one of our number had a wristwatch and he had made a very obvious point of looking at it regularly and making an impatient type noise.

One of the enemy noted the timepiece and I feared for its fate if taken as loot or booty.

However, the adversary just asked what the time was. It was, apparently, ten minutes to five on that fateful friday. Within a few seconds the battlefield was deserted. We had been so engrossed it our conflict that we had overlooked a common bond between us.

On fridays, at five to five so therefore with  not a second to lose, it was Crackerjack.

Multi Storey Horse Park

A fact of life about a car journey to any major town and city is the fully expected difficulty in getting parked.

Not just parked, but in a safe, accessible place and above all at ,what would be regarded as, a reasonable cost.

Income from parking fees is undoubtedly a very lucrative stream of cash for the council owned car parks but so are capital receipts for selling the sites of car parks for development. The vicious circle goes like this. Little or no city centre parking forces shoppers to the privately developed out of town retail centres where there is ample free parking. The city centre retailers react angrily and the council has to provide park and ride services to ensure that the retailers thrive and can afford to pay the business rates into council coffers. This brings trade back to the city and then bus fares go up or cannot any longer be subsidised so people once again take to their cars and search out parking. Developers review and see a viable city centre and require land to build. Blah, de Blah ....so...the council sells any car parking land for development.

This is certainly not a modern phenomena.

Substitute the car with a horse and 1890's Hull had a huge problem. The wonderful bromide prints of Hull from the mid to late 19th Century are awash with fine buildings, interesting frock coated or long skirted characters, grubby faced urchins and also piles of horse dung.

The answer, an enterprising carriage builder Mr Annison built an early multi storey horse park just on the eastern edge of Hull Old Town. Location is everything and Annisons Corner, Witham was ideally positioned for those travelling to the City from the Holderness villages out towards the North Sea Coast but  also convenient for those living in the central area who  had a requirement for a horse for personal use or to pull a carriage but as always had no-where practical to keep it.

Mr Annison had plenty of surplus and available space at his main works for the manufacture and sales of his products, fine covered carriages to impress the neighbours, dog carts a bit like the modern Ford Fiesta and sporty models to thrill at speeds in excess of 4mph. It was good business to draw in a horse owner customer base and the Witham complex, in recent years fully restored, retains the preserved stabling at first floor level above the shop frontage.

I have had the opportunity to inspect the building post-restoration and it is a fascinating example of function and style in Victorian commerce. The horse stalls are accessible from the inner courtyard with a wide and fairly steep cerrated concrete ramp. The first floor stable level has perhaps 30 to 40 horse capacity and the wooden stalls are in good condition. The whole loft area is illuminated by large glazed skylights running almost the full length. I can just imagine the trepidation of the stable staff in having to clean out the beasts and those working in the shops below for any signs of leakage which would be inevitable through even the most substantial intermediate floor.

A full livery service was offered from Witham and was evidently well patronised. The carriage making business had peaked by the early 1900's but the premises continued in use as a well known undertakers well into the twentieth century. Horse drawn hearses were and still remain popular for high profile funerals and the workshops were easily adaptable as undercover parking for the grand carriages and trappings.

The premises were a very sorry sight in the 1980's and 90's in semi dereliction and not far off demolition to accommodate road alterations at a very busy city junction and convergence of the main Holderness Road with the North Bridge river crossing, Great Union Street and Cleveland Street. The building today has a large dispensing chemists occupying the ground floor shop units. The three storey mid section of the building under a distinctive Mansard slate roof provided proprietors or staff quarters but only for those with a very poor sense of smell. This is also occupied and must be an excellent vantage point to experience the comings and goings of a large city.The English Heritage link is of the building in the 80's and in a state of obvious decline. The stabling is located behind the inset brick panels either side of the maisonette and with an archway through to the courtyard.

http://viewfinder.english-heritage.org.uk/search/detail.aspx?uid=1231

The restoration has been excellent and a labour of love over and above any commercial or economic reasoning for its salvation. The road junction remains frantic and manic at the best of times and the concentration required by road users to get through the bottleneck means that little or no attention is given to observing or noticing  the building or what it has contributed to the livelihood and income of many people for over 100 years and hopefully will continue to do so into the future.

The photograph link below is of the restored building but before the chemist shop moved in. It must have been taken early on a sunday with the absence of traffic being very apparent.

http://www.geograph.org.uk/photo/522828

(edited and re-published from 2011)

Hull. On the Waterfront

Hull, as a port town, always has something going on down at the docks.

There are around 5 linear miles of waterfront which in the heyday of the fishing industry and UK merchant navy will have been fair bustling with activity and man-hours worked. The St Andrew's Dock, which included the whimsical but functional Cod Farm where the fish were hung out to air dry, is part developed as a bland any-city-anywhere retail park. The remaining derelict areas, including the sorry looking brick clad but metal framed Lord Line building of that famous shipping company, have changed hands a few times, under distress or not. The latest speculative proposals are for a Marine Research Facility, oh yes and lots of houses and more shops. The old dock walls are still in place but the basin is so silted up and overgrown that the whole area assumes a single level plane of rivuleted mud with the occasional protruding shopping trolley.

A cycle path, forming a route eventually to Liverpool to the west, passes more derelict buildings, the former Fishing Authority offices and the incongrous sight of a large, brash, glazed green tile roofed and pagoda'd chinese restaurant. This path, heading east, includes a section of shouldering the bike and carrying it up a steel staircase and to a gantry over the top of the up and down concave concrete roofs of the old fish sheds.

The Albert and William Wright Dock remains in some active use. A long gash of a basin running paralell to the steep river defences.A few ships get refitted and a similar number only leave as scrap. A recent and stirring site was of the sail training ship Prince William in full rigged sail and with the crew in ceremonial position up in the masts and along the yardarms. Sold in 2010 to the Pakistan Navy the ship is now called Rah Naward, translated as Swift Mover.  A training facility in the form of a tall orange coloured tower is used for simulating the evacuation of a gas or oil rig in the dropping of enclosed fireproof lifeboats into the depths of the dock.

The Princes Dock outer basin operates as the attractive Marina district and the rattle of mastheads in a light breeze is an evocative sound.The Marina has also been developed with a hotel, apartments and some very stylish office buildings, one being referred to as the World Trade Centre. The inner basin, once so crammed with vessels that you could walk fully across just on ships decks, is now occupied by a large shopping centre.

The River Hull forms a physical and some say a cultural and certainly a sporting divide through the city. The Victoria Dock, once the main timber dock is now a large estate with river front executive houses, basin overlooking flats and landlocked town houses. The houses at the eastern edge of the estate are built at the base of a high earth bund which marks the beginning of the eastern docks.

The Alexandra, King George and Queen Elizabeth Docks  cover a large land area from the very edge of the City over a distance of about two and a half miles before reaching the Saltend refinery and power station with the skyline dominated by cooling towers and chemical flare stacks. On passing the complex at night, and squinting momentarily from watching the road, the whole scene could easily double up for the skyscrapers and towers of Manhattan. The eastern dock basins represent some of the busiest facilities in the UK for import and export trade of containerised freight. There is a steady stream of heavy vehicles from Hull, the gateway to Europe, across country to the Atlantic ports including Liverpool to provide a time and cost effective transfer of the containers between these two main economic markets. The road section immediately upon leaving the docks includes a modern swing bridge over the tidal River Hull. When operational to allow a small number of very local vessels in or out of the muddy river the whole City grinds to a halt.

This bottleneck effect is reported to have cost the city a lucrative shipping contract for the Toyota Car Plant in Derbyshire. Visiting executives researching a major export route to Europe found themselves stuck in traffic caused by the bridge being opened for a vessel whose mast head was but inches higher than the clearance. Envisaging a massive queue of car transporters missing the ferry sailings led to the opportunity being offered to a less vulnerable, even if less suited, east coast port.

The main import is softwood timber from Scandinavia and the Baltic States. The high roofed open bay sheds stand out with their stacks of paper wrapped planed and unplaned lengths of timber. On the back of lorries the labels of origin in a graffitti sprayed style can clearly be seen. On a rare visit on to the dockside, given the level of security to combat pilfering or for Customs control, the whole range of goods can be determined from refrigerated and hazardous products to edible oils, animal feed, cocoa, salt and grain. Bulkier produce includes coal, steel and with vast unruly and unsorted piles of scrap metal going the opposite direction destined for smelting in China and India.

The main passenger terminal is a modern low slung building serving the new ferries which leave for Zeebrugge and Rotterdam in the early evening and are back in their berths or moored to the terminal in the actual river ready for loading on a short scheduled basis. On a regular basis there are visiting ships which attract large crowds on the quayside. Me and the boy went on a tour of an American Cruiser, name escapes me but something like USS Dirty Harry. It was a big disappointment as the only accessible area to the public was an anti-clockwise walk around the main deck. Everything was very grey and dull. This contrasted sharply to the more recent visit of HMS Sheffield when we had virtually unlimited access around, in, under and on top of the decks, could sit in the Captains chair and press a few buttons.

The long time privatised company of Associated British Ports appear quite progressive and forward minded and have been in negotiations with one of the largest wind turbine manufacturers to try to persuade them to develop a large factory on the otherwise ready-made Alexandra Dock. There are high hopes that this project will provide long term direct employment, turbine spin off and support industries for many thousands in an area that has never really recovered from the devastation following the demise of the fishing and maritime industries. Whatever the outcome of the committed efforts to establish Hull as a pioneering city within the renewables sector there will always be something going on down on the docks.

Revelation on The Cinder Path

In the life of every father there comes a day of realisation that their son is just better at something than you are.

In my particular case that moment was marked by overwhelming pride.

The circumstances of this revelation?

We were cycling along the Cinder Path, the course of the long discontinued railway line, this time from Whitby southwards to the high ground at the town that never was, Ravenscar.

In the last two to three weeks I have been recovering from an injury sustained from a stupid stumble on a road camber which has kept me, reluctantly, off my bike.

For the first time this avoidable accident had made me feel very much my 51 years.
My son regarded this as being of no consequence to his own cycling ambitions and I was in agreement.

He has been ranging out far and wide on his own and over the last 7 to 8 rides he has covered a distance in excess of 260 miles over very mixed terrain from smooth city roads to the steeply sided hillsides of the Yorkshire Wolds.

The routes themselves are tough and testing enough but William has pushed himself hard on the ascents of the wooded valleys and equally so on the flatter and fast stretches through open countryside.

There has been a noticeable change in his attitude and physique and indeed he has adopted the virtual life of a professional rider in terms of his diet, rest patterns and warm up routines.
Eat, Ride, Sleep.

We have not ridden out together since my old man incident and I was a little nervous on lifting down our mountain bikes from the car roof rack in readiness for the grand depart from the car park on the clifftop at Whitby Abbey.

We paced ourselves across the swing bridge across the Esk, the single carriageway already thronged with holidaymakers even at the early hour of 9am. It was a short sharp incline over a traffic island to the old stone arch of the bridge at the beginning of the rail trail and I was breathing deep and hard but trying not to show my loss of fitness from being laid up.

William waltzed up the slope and was first onto the loose laid cinder track. I fought to keep up on his back wheel to take advantage of partly the slipstream effect but mainly for the comfort of not being left behind.

That was the pattern for the first few of the 11 miles of the outward journey which was a mix of climbing, descending and just plain level.

The heat of the day was rising from the relative coolness of the early hour but under a canopy of trees and with a gentle accompanying breeze it was not overbearing. The way took on a dreamlike appearance of mottled shadows pierced by sunlight. Ridges and potholes in the track became blurred into a softness of surface making our reckoning of the best passage a matter of increased concentration.

We kept pace until sensing the downhill run into Robin Hood's Bay when my additional bulk only gave me greater momentum and braving the potholes and lack of consideration from other cyclists and unattentive pedestrians I found myself just edging ahead.

It was a complete reversal as soon as the track rose again and William was once again in his element.
Every bit of pressure on his pedals took him a further wheel length away from me but the increase in cadence and velocity was smooth and controlled.

I struggled to match the pedalling rythym but my legs were heavy and lacked power.

I marvelled at the surge of William up that hill to Ravenscar and accepting my own limitations  I found myself offering up a prayer of thanks for all that has gone before and felt reassured and confident in all that is to come with my son because of his determination and strength of character to cope with all that life throws up in his path.

Stuck Up

The Post It Note.

A small yellow rectangle of paper can surely not have played such a prominent role in modern life.

It was actually, or at least the low tactile adhesive, designed by accident before, eventually, much thought on a practical use led to its marketing as a product to ease the burden of commerce. Wholly unintentionally it has become the curse of the office environment. This is even where there may be a sweeping Mission Statement making various jargonistic allusions to a specific business running as a paperless operation.

I have always said that the paperless office and the promise of increased leisure time represent the biggest falsehoods in the late 20th and early 21st century workplace.

The Post It Note is more likely to be used as a tool for bullying by the stronger elements in the workforce against the weak. In fact, a critical, biting or just plain cruel comment circulated on the small slip with or without recourse to the self adhesive strip can be soul destroying for the hapless victim or target of the campaign.

Whatever it's intended use it is, at the same time, loved, feared, loathed and tolerated.

The office is of course the natural environment for the Post It Note although I have come across other and more unusual applications in the course of my own working life.

Take the large terraced house in the University District which was occupied by a group of First Year Students from overseas.

Many of the intake had arrived in the late summer, some weeks before the beginning of the academic year for the purpose of having a practical grounding in the English language and a working knowledge of the main customs and conventions.

The majority will have had no command of the language beyond their equivalent of secondary education and will have been heavily influenced by the lyrics of pop songs and videos posted on various social media sites. This gives them a slang based perception of English, perhaps not altogether a barrier to communicating with their peer group amongst UK and other overseas students but certainly in more formal surroundings where a sentence or trusted phrase is necessary and more appropriate.

The walls throughout the student house were littered with a rainbow arrangement of Post It Notes which I soon realised accorded with the different nationalities who resided there. The Chinese contingent, and I kid you not, were using the original and best known colour of the product, in canary. The Africans had adopted the green, a flamboyant nucleus of students from southern europe were pink and those from the nations of the former Soviet Union persisted with the red.

What had drawn me to the conclusion of the colour coded segregation was that each and every Post It Note was affixed to something and bore the name of that object in the respective native language and then the English.

This made for quite a welcome splash of colour to the otherwise and typical use of neutral and drab shades to the decor.

It seemed to be a good and practical system based on the rapid rise to fluency of the household by the first few weeks of the academic term.

The other application was, I found, sad and not a little bit disturbing.

It was a family house. Living there was a nuclear family unit of mum, dad and 2.6 kids which in reality can be rounded up to a full 3 offspring.

I am not sure of the back story of the family but my arrival was obviously at a time of a significant breakdown in relations between the parents and their children.

This was clearly illustrated by the proliferation of Post It Notes throughout all of the habitable rooms. They were written on in a grown up script and the bold text was intended to act as guidance, instruction and a warning to what must have been a mutinous, lethargic, sullen and downright useless group of children within those four walls.

The kitchen was most plastered in yellow slips bearing such orders as "Shut fridge door after use", "Wash up any plates and cutlery immediately", "Do not lick spoon after dipping in food", "Load and unload the washer if it is empty or full","Sweep the floor of crumbs", " Only boil enough water for use" and " Do not take food without asking", "Last person in to lock the door".

Hallway, main reception rooms, cloakroom, landing, bedrooms and bathroom were similarly festooned in almost military commands. One from each covered such disciplines as "Leave shoes in a neat pile", "No eating in the Lounge", "Set the dining table for meals as per rota", "Flush loo after use and WASH HANDS!", "No pushing on the stairs", "Make own beds in the morning", "Remove dirty plates to kitchen", "Do not leave towels on the floor". In fact the tone of instructions was very much like those found commonly in a Guest House, Bed and Breakfast Establishment or a Remand Home.

The whole situation was quite oppressive and depressing.

This was compounded by actually meeting the three young members of the family, the beleagured element who, to me, seemed just like normal kids just demoralised and confused.

Their parents on the other hand had lost it and were resorting to desperate measures to, in their minds, regain a modicum of order and control in the house.

I was a bit mischeivous but felt it my moral responsibility to try to resolve a wholly unsatisfactory and unhealthy domestic situation.

So, out of sight, I scribbled on a blank Post It Note the contact details for Childline which I had Googled on my phone. I said a silent prayer that upon seeing such a cry for help, ostensibly from their youngsters the parents would come to their senses and just talk in a rational manner with perfectly rational children and return to what must have been, at one time, a happy home.

Roller Coast-er

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.

(reproduced from August 2012 on the eve of doing the ride again....in reverse)

Peter Tong. There's nothing left.

That light bulb moment.

Out of the fog of confusion and ignorance comes the blinding light of a revelation.

For most of us this epiphany may centre on the most mundane of daily things. It is only for a rare few that their awakening and realisation has implications, hopefully beneficial, for all of mankind.

Before the invention of light bulbs it was a "Eureka" moment and in prehistoric times it may just have been expressed as "ugh,ugh, ugh, ughitty-ugh".

A recent radio show encouraged listeners to share the experiences of their own particular emergence from long held beliefs, firmly entrenched and wholly believed misunderstandings and where their perception of life and all things has been challenged by the penny dropping. This can be discovered by yourself which can be done quietly and any backtracking can be graceful. It is a different matter where such things are exposed by family, friends and strangers.

Here is a selection of the many testimonies given.

I suspect, having listened to the broadcast first hand that many of those sending e mails or tweeting did not give their real names for fear of inevitable ridicule and shame. The radio show was music based and so a few do have a pop and rock theme.

"I only recently realised that.................

Unless it is nightime, it is always a beautiful sunny day above the clouds.

The teams competing on University Challenge do not actually sit one on top of the other.

Thank You is made up of two words.

Fast Trains does not mean extra speed of movement but fewer stops on a particular route.

Ceefax refers to See Facts.

You cannot buy a pre-heated oven.

The actual saying is "Full Kit and Caboodle" and not "Full kitten caboodle".

Ray Bans refer to sunglasses which 'ban rays' and not the name of their inventor.

A fine toothed comb is not a splendid bit of kit for your pearly whites.

A Tigress is not a female lion.

Midnight is am and noon is pm. No wonder my clients were confused about appointments.

If it is still mineral water what other thing could it possibly be?

The band INXS means in excess.

A room of number 412 does not mean there are 412 rooms just room 4 on the 12th floor.

In the sport of boxing "seconds out" is not a countdown but time for trainers to leave the ring.

Rob da Bank, the DJ. That is not his real name.

Sandie Shaw, the female singer, is a pun.

AMEX means American Express.

There is malt in Maltesers

It is common or garden and not communal garden.

Aladdin Sane by David Bowie means a lad insane.

Ron Bacardi did not invent the famous drink. Ron is Spanish for rum.

Cotton Wool is made from cotton

The Beatles is a pun on musical beats and not an insect


and so on if you are brave enough to admit to this type of misapprehension.

Not a stupid boy, that Pyke

Sometimes the exploits and antics of an individual really capture my interest and one such person featured in a recent BBC4 Extra dramatisation was Geoffrey Pyke.

The man may not have been at the forefront of public perception but he contributed greatly to the Nation and particularly so in the rarified times of conflict when a wild and crazy idea often stood a good chance of success, if a measure of that success was the shortening of a war and the saving of countless lives or even a single life.

I have never seen any film footage or audio recordings of Geoffrey Pyke but my generation, 1960's baby boomers, will certainly recall with affection his close relative the scientist Magnus Pyke, flailing arms and exaggerated gesticulations and all. Certain characteristics follow the family lineage and my visualisation and appreciation of Geoffrey Pyke has certainly been helped by my memories of Dr Magnus.

The earlier Pyke was born in 1894. He engendered a reputation for eccentricity and genius in his ideas, inventions and schemes but equally exasperated and frustrated many who came across him, particularly those in authority.

In the first world war he persuaded a Newspaper to infiltrate him into Berlin to report back but he was captured shortly after arriving and had to make an escape from prison and make his way back to the UK. He was however declared a hero by his media employers and lived well off this status.

Between the wars he became self taught in playing the investment market and his scientific system of dabbling in stocks and shares made him a fortune. This he used to open a school where pupils were encouraged to pursue their own interests in a free and easy environment with a non-punishment or reprimand regime. The idea was largely an antidote to his own years in secondary education when he was the victim of remorseless bullying and victimisation. It was a success in its unique way but drained him of his wealth and it was after only a few years that the educational establishment was forced to close.

His aptitude for thinking well out of the box was well suited to the war effort from 1939. His first initiative was to try to oust Adolf Hitler by popular demand and he attempted this by sending students into Nazi Germany, disguised as golfers with clubs and clipboards to try to demonstrate in a public straw poll that Hitler was in fact not at all popular. The failure was inevitable but then hindsight is a wonderful thing.

With genius and individualism comes strange behaviour and traits. Geoffrey Pyke spent most of his working days in his pyjamas and would only eat herring. He was obsessed with not being cramped or constricted by furniture and possessions and he rigged up a series of ropes and pulleys to elevate all of his belongings up to ceiling height to give a clear, open plan and spacious work space during his office hours. I personally like that idea and can see some contemporary applications in modern lifestyles.

From brainstorming, Geoffrey Pyke soon moved on to actual engineered inventions from a motorised sledge to an actual tracked, all terrain vehicle, The Weasel which went into production and with many still mobile and in use well into the post war period in Polar Exploration.

His behaviour and appearance, very much along the lines of a mad professor were not widely accepted particularly in North America here he was seconded on joint research and development projects. He was reputed to have met the Canadian Prime Minister with trouser flies wide open which only added to their mistrust and frustrations of a strange man.

The radio drama that introduced me to Geoffrey Pyke revolved around two of his wartime inventions. These had come about in his time with British Combined Operations- a think-tank reporting back and with the interest of Winston Churchill and Lord Mountbatten.

Project Habbakuk was to be a huge ocean going aircraft carrier made from reinforced ice. The main constituent of the huge vessel was Pykrete, a mixture of water and wood pulp which when frozen exhibited tremendous strength, durability and stability and was also virtually bomb and torpedo proof. The idea progressed to a prototype on a Canadian Lake and it survived a whole summer. The D Day invasions caused the project to be abandoned although Pykrete had proven to be a workable and viable structural material.

It appears that after this personal disappointment Geoffrey Pyke found it very difficult to reach the same influential people and became forgotten and ignored insite of numerous authoratative writings and consultancy posts in a nation emerging from a crippling war.

.In 1948, increasingly pessimistic and despairing about the world and the direction it was taking he took his own life. His legacy, even to the present day, has not in my opinion really been recognised with due credit and acknowledgement. We can only stand back and speculate on what he may have contributed to the nation and wider world had he reached what may well have been his most fruitful and productive years. We will never know and we are poorer for that fact.

Upside Upside

If you read my blog of yesterday entitled "Noises off and on" you may be interested in the link below featuring the composition and performance work of Johnny Random generating sounds only from bicycle parts.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eHD1VISY0-Q

His track "Bespoken" is particularly evocative and emotional and is getting a bit of airplay on BBC6 Music as well as being a perfect backing track for a few postings on You Tube.

The link is for a charity ride for fallen colleagues in the United State Public Services.

See what you think and then if you fancy a go yourself get that bike of yours upside down and give it a whirl..............

Noises off and on

It was never enough to have just a bicycle.

It should have been as your own bike represented the first means of making your own way in the world.

Two wheels gave a freedom from parents and perhaps more importantly those younger brothers and sister, love 'em, who always seemed to be tagging along on foot in close proximity dragging a favourite soft toy or well worn blanket.

I ranged about far and wide on my first bike. Announcing at breakfast that I was going on a bike ride would instill panic in my parents at the thought of their son wobbling along a busy main road, mixing it nonchalantly with thundering HGV's and liveried local buses.

I was put through my cycle proficiency test as a minimum indicator of two wheeled competency and graduating from the class gave me a justified green light for setting off on my own.

My peer group also had their own cycles. In a small town with only one bike shop it was inevitable that the most popular make was well represented. By popular I refer to the translation into parental language as inexpensive, reasonable, well alright, cheap. This led to a fierce competition to customise and personalise our machines.

At the most fundamental level and with materials readily sourced from around our homes was the clothes peg attached to the front wheel forks and holding a stiff piece of cardboard. The rotation of the wheel produced a very satisfying clackety-clack sound and this became more accentuated and distinctive as you pedalled faster and faster down the street. A group of half a dozen of us moving at speed up the High Street imitated the sound of an aerial attack and town residents of a certain age to have experienced the real thing in the second world war could be seen rushing to take cover in shop doorways and the sole bus shelter.

One of the lads from wealthy parents was able to afford a battery powered gadget, about the size of a small rucksack under his saddle, which when switched on produced the sound effects of a motorbike engine. Pedalling at 10mph down the same High Street had an equivalent effect of hastening the crossing of the road by the elderly and infirm in expectation of a Hells Angel rolling into the otherwise sleepy urban setting.

Adorning the bikes was not the sole preserve of the boys.

Prising out the plastic stoppers from the ends of the handlebars was popular with the girls as it allowed them to insert colourful streamers. The stoppers were intended to prevent large cross sections from being taken out of young flesh in the event of an innocent tumble or a full-on crash. A gang of small lassies in full flight amidst the heat haze effect of the streamers was a marvellous sight to behold. Of course any such display had to be before tea time as they were not allowed out after 6pm.

I was particularly proud of a sticker that I had bought from a car accessory shop and which took pride of place on my blue plastic saddlebag bearing the words "Caution- Short Vehicle".

There were plenty of other bits and pieces to attach to our bikes. If bought brand new there would be a shiny chrome coloured bell attached. Of course this was removed as soon as doting parents had completed their due diligence of checking out tyre pressure, saddle height, tightness of essential nuts and bolts and that the pump worked.

We knew nothing of the mystery and protocol of what to do in the event of a puncture.

That was your Dad's role.

The bell would be replaced by a horn. You know the type. Black squeezy rubber bulb and stainless steel ear trumpet attachment. When squeezed it let out a parpy-parp-parp sound which was more comical than functional as a warning to other road users and pedestrians. 

These bolt on goodies were a source of voluntary noise on our travels.

Other noises were entirely beyond our control including such things as brake blocks rubbing on a buckled wheel, a creaking pedal axle from being bent scooting along the pavement, rattling mudgards, squeaky seatpost, twanging from perilously loose spokes, a stiff chain link going through the gears and the often violent escape of air from a bursting tyre.

It was, to us, like a true symphony - a soundtrack to a young life of carefree fun and adventure. Of course, to the public at large going about their business it was just about kids on poorly maintained bicycles.

Cat in a Flap

As a man at the forefront of Science, and therefore with a rational and measured explanation for everything, Isaac showed some humility with the fear of God in his eyes as he pleaded with me to accompany him on his flight from Cambridge in the summer of 1665.

The black-rat and flea borne plaque was virulent and merciless in the cities and had even caused a small Derbyshire village, so it was reported in the broadsheets, to shut itself away in a bid to survive the boil-blown blisters which signalled a lingering death.

Isaac's family home was a two day journey by horse drawn coach across the Fens and then into the rolling hills east of Nottingham and towards the small market town of Grantham. Isaac called it a place of great tedium and from whence no one of any substance, fame or notoriety in matters of business or politic would ever be likely to emerge. It was a town of shop keepers, he said.

Woolsthorpe was not a lot more inspiring in my eyes which were more accustomed to the urban vistas. A tiny village it was and Isaac's family occupied the largest, grandest house therein. A large yellow natural stone edifice of a building, exploded forth from an artisan cottage as fortune favoured the familial endeavours and now a bit pretentious with many outbuildings, landed areas and a mature orchard of, on my summers day arrival, heavy fecund boughs laden with green apples just turning to a rosy hue and ripeness. I would perhaps steal away and partake of my own scrumping in the coming weeks, or if the plaque persisted - who knew when.

A wagon arrived a couple of days later stacked high with Isaac's equipment for science. Items were boxed and labelled as to where in his study they should be carefully placed. I was aware then of the depth and breadth of his great mind. He was much feted and admired in academic circles for his work on calculus, optics and celestial issues. He was wholly wed to his research and as long as I had been acquainted ,no female of any guile or intention could appeal to his more base instincts, if at all he harboured any behind that determined and focused visage when engaged in his science.

We had therefore upped-sticks and encamped in rural Lincolnshire. I would have plenty of time to myself if Isaac disappeared into his study for the duration of the daylight hours for the purposes of his experiments with light  refraction and prisms. The quality of light was significantly improved to that in Cambridge where a sudden domestic smoke smog could destroy an intricate daylight dependant study so rapidly and send Isaac into a great melancholic stupor.

The only intrusion on his dissection of light experimentation turned out to be the house cat, Mistress Nell, so named after that amusing whore who was keeping King Charles abed and humoured. I would be sat engrossed in a book or pamphlet when Isaac would scream for Mistress Nell to be removed by his domestic staff, usually his long suffering mother Hannah, after another uninvited incursion into his study. The room, darkened by a heavy felt hanging at the window to create a perfect environment for studies in light, was pitch black and a stubborn Isaac would be heard stumbling around falling over the furnishings rather than light a taper for navigation purposes.

Mistress Nell, a favourite companion of Isaac out of office hours would insist on pushing open the heavy panelled study door on an ingraciating visit oblivious to the accompanying flood of dust carrying sunbeam light that would occur in her wake. Issac was on the verge of a breakthrough and was excited and agitated in equal proportions over what he had perceived to be the fracturing of a single beam of sunlight through the heavy window cover and via an intricate bauble of a glass prism into multiple rainbow streams which he called a spectrum. Hannah, poor thing now at the ripe old age of 43 was struggling to cope with the return of the Prodigal Son whom everyone insisted on telling her was a genius. Pots, plates and undergarments were the same to her whatever the status of the person who soiled them and left them for her to retrieve on the weekly wash day for pewter and linen.

On one occasion of being summoned in such a disrespectful manner she had mentioned that Isaac should either kill the cat or apply his pioneering and inventive mind to the problem. Always relishing a challenge Isaac tore away a small parchment fragment from one of his expansive drawing sheets and mused on the dilemna. Cat-door-light-dark. The ensuing sketch was, as I later saw, quite infantile in form and content. The annotation was confusing to my non-scientific outlook. A-Cat, B-door, C-Light and the easy one of the four, D-Dark. Mistress Nell was fashioned in the diagram from two chubby circles, two triangular ears and the absent minded stroke of a quill pen for whiskers. It would not have looked out of place as a satirical cartoon to the wit of Mr Samuel Johnson in his London Salon.

In the following hours there was a riot of hammering, nailing and a tirade of foul cursing from Isaac at the door to the study. Then perspiring but smiling he revealed his solution to alleviating the intrusive movements of the cat. It was a large hole about six inches from the base of the door, a cat sized hole. On the room face of the hole he had tacked a long, extended corridor piece of surplus felt from the window screen. Mistress Nell, with some reticence was physically bundled towards the aperture. She was not well pleased and with claws out and straddling the ominous hole she was not going to participate in the first demonstration of the 'Cat-Hole'. Isaac cajoled and poked the animal with increasing impatience but events had reached an impasse.

I dashed to see the cook in the scullery and returned with a morsel of calves liver which I had remembered engendered an addictive tendency in felines. I wafted it just inside the extended felt sheath. A twitch and a screech later Mistress Nell detached herself from the seasoned oak and shot through into the room. It did take a few more performances of this nature to reinforce the association of the cat hole with the reward of food on the other side. Isaac was understandably proud of his invention. I saw no further possibilities for such a crude opening in a door for the voluntary and unsupervised passage of cats. When , some months later, Mistress Nell (the cat) fell pregnant, ironically to Charles, the large male cat from the adjacent farm, Isaac knocked out a series of smaller holes lower down in the door for the tiny kittens to use. Bright mind he may have had but no common sense. The small offspring would simply follow their mother through the main cat hole and ignore what was now a spoiled, draughty and almost ineffective closure to the study.

I was witness later on to the revenge strategy undertaken by Mistress Nell for the indignity of her treatment at the hands of a previously affectionate and attentive master. She would defecate around the study in a systematic way along the narrow footways in an otherwise crammed full floorspace so that Isaac could not fail to step into something. His documents developed a strange off white tint and acidic pungent smell overnight. He drew another sketch on the matter of improving the influx of air to the room, a sort of air conditioning but was soon distracted by other issues of a less fanciful and futuristic theme.

The pinnacle of Mistress Nells reprisals was out of doors. If Isaac became dulled and of pale pallor from his darkened cavelike existence he would take to a short recreational in the grounds of Woolsthorpe. If a fine day, with little prospect of developing a chill on his delicate chest, he could be found in the orchard, staring at the patterns of light through the leafy boughs, torturing a poor insect to a fiery death using his prism to concentrate a heated sunbeam or just sat with his back to the gnarled trunk of a one of the apple trees.

On such a sunny, still day I had spied Mistress Nell skulking out of the house, no doubt in pursuit of one of the many mice that infested the place.However, she was on an altogether more vindictive quest. She made for the orchard and using the technique of claws out which had prevented, momentarily, her being  thrust into that human made hole she easily ascended the fruit tree under which a contented Isaac was sleeping lightly and no doubt dreaming about some convoluted equation of numbers and symbols.

She edged out on her still distended birth swollen belly along the bough directly above Isaac. With a swift and deft swipe of her paw she dislodged a large, somewhat maggoty apple which fell with some velocity but dropped quietly into the thick pip spattered soil at the base of the trunk and slightly to the right of the prone form. Frustrated, but cool and intent on exacting some satisfaction for her previous maltreatment on her master, she tried again.

The next apple was a bit smaller, but ripened and glistening with a mixture of wasp spittle and residual dew. It was attached with some elasticity by its woody stalk connection to the bough and insisted on swinging like a pendulum when initially agitated by paw and claw. Akin to playing with her favourite ball of wool on the floor of the study which had always been to the amusement of her previously attentive and formerly faultlessly considerate master Mistress Nell persisted.  She continually punched and pummelled the apple before under an irresistible force it eventually worked loose and fell, straight and true onto the prominent, intelligent and studious head of Isaac Newton.

(repeated from July 2012)

A hard stare under the vegetation

A house built in 1780 is a bit of a challenge to inspect and to try to fathom out how it was put together.

In some cases it is a miraculous thing that it still stands to this day.

I hesitate to use the phrase "stand up straight" because in the matter of the late 18th Century cottage that I looked at just yesterday there was not one entirely perpendicular or aligned wall in the whole place and yet, that is the exact characteristic that people go for when buying anything old. 

At one time the cottage and its 4 matching neighbours belonged to the same owner. He made that known to me when he accosted me on the pavement within seconds of my taking up a vantage point. The one I was looking at he had sold off some years ago. 

The new and former owners had apparently fallen out big style during the cut and thrust of the purchase procedure and the two, in spite of living in close proximity either side of a single brick thick party wall had only exchanged hard stares since. This was the exact same situation that faced me this day as the owner, now seller, had heard a conversation on the street. 

Standing resolutely cross armed at the threshold the hard staring commenced. 

I felt a bit awkward.

On the one hand I had to get on well with the seller for the next few hours if I was to be granted access to all parts of the cottage. 

On the other, the cantankerous former owner had confided in me gleefully that his roof leaked like a sieve and it would certainly be the same next door. I made a mental note to verify this for myself later on. 

The front elevation had been painted a bright lemon colour but in a thin enough coat to make out the bonding pattern of the bricks underneath. The paint served a number of purposes from prettifying a rather plain facing brick to disguising cracks, pitted and eroded facings and where alterations, their reason and purpose lost in the mists of time, had been carried out by one or more persons unknown.

The lowest two courses of brick had been blathered in bitumastic in a traditional measure to combat rising dampness. It may have been effective for a century or so but had certainly failed now. Corresponding internal surfaces were saturated, stained, a bit fusty and anything organic attached, such as skirting boards and door frames were also creased and soft from ongoing rot. 

Authentic sash cord hung windows were just about holding on to the masonry surround with difficulty and I dare not attempt a test opening in case everything fell out onto the pavement. 

A few rough hewn timber lintels could be seen above the frames but these were pockmarked with worm and fissured with weathering. 

As for the roof, well, the pantiles were obviously the original but a good few were missing and the furtive tip off from the old man was certainly looking to be a good one.  

I counted, as usual, the number of chimney pots in order to tally these up with the fireplaces and flues on a room to room basis. I was often missing one or two chimney breasts which had fallen to the seductive persuasions of the Readers Digest Book of Home Improvements (1974) which encouraged ripping out the mass of brickwork in the living room but leaving a good tonnage unsupported in the room or rooms above. 

The tall and soot blackened pots themselves were at crazy angles and if used for removal of smoke would certainly send a plume horizontally rather than wicking it away into the atmosphere. 

I stood back and admired the window box floral displays until realising that the vegetation was in fact hanging in the gutters. 

The owner patrolling the footpath for any return by the vindictive neighbour asked the usual question of "is everything looking alright so far?". 

I have mastered a neutral facial expression in response after more than a quarter of a decade in the job when in my early years I may have shouted "just run away as fast as you can and do not look back!". 

And then with a mixture of fear and anticipation I made my way to the inside...........(to be continued)

Bit by Bit

Some of the best ever holidays that we, as a family, have enjoyed have been in late summer and early autumn in Scotland.

It is a great time of the year to visit with an often indian sub-continental climate and a few less northern european tourists in camper vans. The natural light is paler and mellow which, with the turning of the broadleaved trees and heather really emphasises the beauty of the mountains, glens and lochs.

Of course, all of this appreciation and sightseeing must be completed when it is raining or before dusk because when dry and after the light has faded is when Scotland reverts to the insect kingdom and the miniscule but mighty blood thirsty midge.

In the purpley fading light of a sunset behind a backdrop of the most fantastic scenery it is necessary to light up the 3-Tigers smoke producing tapers, immerse yourself in insect repellent or doctor yourself with oral medication and even seriously consider taking up high tar cigarettes for the duration of any vacation north of the border. I hesitate to mention some of the more wacky, folklore based and Old Wives remedies to alleviate this insect affliction. This is all undertaken even to if you intend to stay indoors and do not at all harbour any thoughts to venture out to see the unfettered night sky including the Milky Way, possibly the Aurora Borealis or the tremendous landscape in silhouette.

The Midge has undoubtedly had an impact on the attraction of Scotland as a vacation destination and for ultimate enjoyment of its great outdoors but perhaps there is an element of conspiracy in that relief from attack can be sought in the pubs, bars, restaurants and entertainment venues for a price.

To this end a proactive project was carried out in September 2008 by Aberdeen University and Rothamstead Research into midge habits in order to determine if there exists a formula for a wholly effective means of repellent.

The survey sample was quite specifically located on the shores of Loch Ness and comprised a total of 325 people who just happened to be visitors at that time.The study did reveal some interesting facts and statistics.

The midge definitely favours men of tall stature and overweight women. The reasons were however significantly different. In the former case a midge has a workable flying altitude of 2 metres and associates trees and vegetation at this height with food. Tall men are therefore a rather confused source for sustenance. In the latter the feasting of midges is on the common extrusions from overweight women of carbon dioxide and lactic acid. The survey did not comment on the emissions of large, fat males because there were none milling about at Loch Ness at the time. This sounds like a self  fulfilling prophecy if ever there was one. They are overweight simply because they do not take strenuous exercise in the open air in september around a deep water Loch.

A surprising revelation of the survey was that around 15% of the sample had a natural immunity to midge bites and when questioned on this it was apparent that this was the same with other family members and of different generations of the family, therefore indicating a genetic disposition. The report does not state if this charmed proportion of the population were culled and disected in the interests of science, humanity and the Scottish Tourist Board. Volunteers must have been forthcoming in that the secret repellent was identified as being a combination of two chemicals- geranylacetaone and methylheptenone. These can be artificially processed on an industrial scale and are sold to the perfume industry in particular.

The basis is a floral compound of fruity aroma but totally abhorrent to the midge. The merits of these compounds for intelligent pest management have not escaped the commercial world and a series of products are currently well into the test stage pending production. The availability of such a repellent will be revolutionary for the nation of Scotland.

It turns out that there really are those amongst us who always come up from any adversity, smelling of roses.

A bit out of kilter

We put pressure on ourselves to try to re-enact and recapture moments or experiences from our past.

That is why in the sphere of sport we spend money on such things as expensive equipment and fashionable leisure gear to attempt to emulate a particular acheivement from way, way back in our recollections.

For me, it is trying to reproduce a certain level of fitness and an overwhelming feeling of well being from my early 20's when I cycle-trained just about every day and in a brief competitive phase managed one win, albeit in a minor and local event and a few placings, mainly those with a few pounds of prize money to be able to afford petrol for the return journey home or at best the trade off between a quarter tank of fuel, a bag of crisps and a fizzy drink.

I manage to get out on my bike now only once or at best twice a week and for the first few miles into a ride I do go through vaguely familiar sensations of effortless speed and swift forward movement.

In my energetic youth I would set off for a few hours at a time and regularly notch up distances in excess of one hundred miles at any one time with little physical or mental fatigue. Nowadays it is the case of having to take a few days off the bike after a 50 mile ride just to recover and see off niggling aches and strains.

I have recently changed my habit of a lifetime of picking at food in between large meals and that bad habit of clearing the plates of family members unable to finish their tea or dinners. This was reasonably alright when I could work off the extra calories through exercise or just leading a busy life in husbandly chores and keeping three very active children and two hyperactive dogs entertained. However, with age the metabolism changes.

The added fats, good and bad ones, sugars and carbs just will not shift and before long they contribute to a condition of being obese and unfit. I have been determined to reverse the trend of gaining weight. It is sensible to do so at my age, as I am constantly being reminded in the media and from friends and acquaintances.

This has been difficult, especially in the first few days of the healthy eating regime. Progress was extremely slow and for a good few weeks there was no noticeable benefit in terms of a lighter body weight, improved respiration or shape. The first indications of something good happening was in the remarks of others that I looked trimmer and less bloated. It is only longstanding and loyal friends who can get away with such comments.

One or more chin levels seemed to disappear gradually. Trousers felt a bit looser around the midriff and that previously tight and restrictive shirt collar now felt much more comfortable. A side profile view in a shop window, on a quiet street obviously, suggested a subtle slimming of a previously bulbous shape. A person not seen for a few months asks if there has been any illness with expressions of relief that I was on a diet and not a steeply downward spiral of sickness.

I have purposely not weighed myself as this is very demoralising especially if expecting daily reductions. Alternatively, I have gauged progress by trying on items of clothing that have year by year worked their way to the back of the wardrobe in direct inverse proportion to my increase in weight and dimensions.

A favourite shirt from a Greek holiday was always just too tight across the chest and that bare-chested look went out with the 1980's for sure.

A T shirt, worn regularly in the better weather made me look ripped but I was not able to move my torso because of the tightness of the cotton material.

Those designer jeans would, it appears, be destined to stay on the hanger.

A few long, hungry weeks into my new lifestyle I was thrilled to find that I could fasten up the holiday shirt although sitting down did pop off a button which was disappointing. The T shirt hung loosely making me look rather undernourished and after rolling about on the bedroom carpet I managed to get into those favourite denims.

I am resigned to the fact that my regime will take some time longer to make me entirely happy with myself.

More than that I have adopted some good dietary habits and gone for good, hopefully that culture and craving to pick and over eat.

It is my 51st birthday today and as a bit of a joke I tried on the Kilt, in family clan tartan, in which I was married 25 years ago.

I have attempted the same on a regular basis just in case by some freakish combination it would be wearable. The inner buckle actually fastened. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement I wrapped the heavy cloth around. The outer belt fixing was tight but with a little easing it slid through the clasp and I was able to secure it. Granted, the pleats are not strictly aligned but I am happy to report that I have restored that item of clothing to a prominent hanger in the front part of the cupboard.

Of course, I can see no actual occasion where wearing it would be appropriate and practical especially as I do not own any of the essential accessories, particularly a sporran.

That did not stop me from doing a bit of a birthday jig in it although it would certainly be frowned upon by any Scottish Nationals who happened to witness the pitiful sight. Definitely a No Vote on that basis.

Rattle and Hum

Something triggers the human mind and almost without thinking a subconcious memory of a tune, rhythm or lyric emerges. 

That is the story, and I am sticking to it, behind my longstanding habit of humming or singing for just about all of my waking hours. 

To my closest family it is an annoyance. 

To first time acquaintances it leads to the remark, just about every time, that "someone sounds like he's having a good day". 

My Mother in Law, whose opinions and judgement I value highly asked my wife if it was an indication of a stress problem. 

I am now at a stage of just doing it without realising until it is drawn to my attention by others along the lines I have just mentioned. 

I cannot really say what prompts me to hum or sing.

Most of the time I am just happy which I call a blessing in what is otherwise reported as being a pretty dour and tragic world that we live in. 

My repertoire is extremely varied from hymns to classics, rock anthems to chart toppers, film scores to TV programme theme tunes. 

I am as far as I am aware pitch perfect and tuneful based on the fact that I have not had any complaints of that nature. It seems that it is more the monotonous and repetitive delivery that causes offence and aggravation to those in earshot.
 I do have a musical background in that my Mother is an excellent pianist and in my formative years I studied the descant recorder (as did most of my generation) before progressing to a longstanding position as third cornet in the town brass band. That rank marked the pinnacle of a short career and I progressed no farther. 

I like to think that my talent was stifled and suppressed by ambitious younger musicians with pushy parents but it was more to the point that I just did not practice that much.

I am told that I have a good singing voice and enjoy a good belt in church or when able to claim anonymity in a larger group such as in a choir or amongst those on a football terrace. 

It is therefore, in my opinion, perfectly natural to hum and allude to a tune as I go about my daily life. 

Take today, I awoke with a vague recollection of an electro-pop tune in my head and persisted with it through getting ready for work, having breakfast and until getting into the car. 

Driving along I passed an Eastern European Supermarket called Bismillah which within a few minutes manifested as a rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. 
Other traffic on the road, mostly cars produced a hummed version of "Best Friends Girl". 

At the first of a succession of traffic light controlled junctions I found myself into "Stop", the big electric guitar version by Joe Bonamassa. 
I was moving along nicely past the congested bus lane and was surprised when the song from the film Summer Holiday burst forth.

My office is on a road called Henry Boot Way. Even  before reaching the entrance to the office park I was visited by Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots are made for walking".

I collected my list of jobs for the day and set off for my first appointment accompanied by the James Bond theme. Obviously I had high expectations for what the day would bring.

2-4-6-8 Motorway was inevitable as I made my way out of the city. 
I passed the retail park with the prominent golden arches of McDonalds. Ee-ay-ee-ay-oh.

It was a nice, easy and inspiring drive to my first appointment. Born Free seemed apt for that feeling of liberty. The winding country lanes, after leaving the trunk roads, somehow extracted from a distant memory the lyrics and tune of a John Denver hit although ironically I was travelling further away from home than towards it.

You will understand by now the reason for my constant humming and singing. I do find it quite relaxing but then again there must be a connection between my particular habit and the fact that no-one ever wants to share a journey with me. 

Oh no, that tune from the Lynx Deodorant advert ......."one is the loneliest number" comes to mind.

Black and White and Read all over

If there is one thing that I would really like to do more of, it is the reading of books. 

Many things have to come together to enable this to be the complete immersion experience that it should be but I rarely have any of them. 

The key factor is of course time but that has become a rare and therefore valuable commodity in modern lives. Most of us might only be able to spare time when on holiday, travelling when someone else is in charge of the journey or in the unfortunate circumstances of illness. 

My most recent book-fest was enforced when I was confined to rest after having my appendix out. Rather than finding this to be a restful, relaxing and recuperating period I was completely traumatised by the content of two books by Anthony Beevor on the D-Day Campaign in 1944 and the Battle for Berlin in 1945. The sheer volume of facts, anecdotes and personal reminiscences combined into a full onsluaght on my tender sensitivities to the point that I suffered nightmarish falshbacks as though I had myself been involved in the violence and mayhem. 

I have a stack of books in just about every room in the house (including the littlest) in readiness for that elusive spare time but invariably find that the only opportunity to delve into the mixture of fiction, fact, biography and fantasy is in those brief seconds just before my eye lids become unbearably heavy and I fall into a deep but fitful sleep. 

I have started many of the world's greatest literary works with great enthusiasm only to i) doze off,  ii) lose concentration, iii) go off and do some chore or other or iv) all of these things. As a consequence I have a detailed recollection of the opening few pages or at best a chapter of those books that are a must-read before departing this life. 

The problem is that these snapshot snippets have, over the years, amalgamated into a super-story but of the utmost incoherence and confusion. I am under the impression that I read about a group of Hobbits embarking on an epic quest to save the sole member of a once proud North American native tribe whilst cooking up a budget family meal and solving the mysteries of the universe. 

It appears that my failure to finish reading a book is not unique. 

Many, it appears have that surge of ambition to take on a classic novel or masterpiece of its genre only to abandon it half way through a chapter or even, it appears becoming disillusioned after the intial sentences of the introduction or even just the summary on the back of the book jacket. 

The Mathematician, Jordan Ellenberg has conducted some research in his attempt to identify that unenviable title of "the most unread book of all time". The gathering of any representative data on this issue can only be near-impossible given the great variety of books available and the individual reading habits and practice of the wider population. 

Ellenberg adopts an interesting statistical base in studying the "Popular Highlights" feature on the Amazon web pages. It appears that every book's Kindle page lists the five passages most highlighted by readers. If every reader is indeed completing the read then the distribution of the Highlights would, logically, be taken at points throughout the whole book. By definition, if nobody manages to get past the first few chapters then the highlighted highlights will all be towards the beginning. 

It is possible, using a mathematical approach, to establish an Indexation, by taking the page numbers of any one book's five top highlights and dividing that number by the total number of pages in that book. This way, a high number suggests that more readers have progressed well and hopefully to completion and conversly a low number that fatigue, boredom or distraction have been the stronger influence. The potential for interpretation of the data does not provide for a widely accepted scientific protocol but can be interesting when applied to the current best selling books on offer. 

Best on the shelf is a Donna Tartt novel "The Goldfinch" at a huge 98.5% rating under the system. The classic American novel "The Great Gatsby" records only 28.3% although it is likely that familiarity with the storyline and characters comes more from the recent movie than the written word. "Fifty Shades of Grey" has a rating of 25.9% but then again having dipped in and out of the explicit depravity scenes I can imagine readers having to put the book down and rush out for a quick cold shower or to seek out a loved one.

The recipient of the dubious honour of the most unread book of all time currently lies with Stephen Hawking's "Brief History of Time" but shortly to be toppled by the Thomas Pikkety Best Seller of "Capital in the Twenty First Century". 

I can feel my eyelids twitching at the sheer anticipation of catching up with these notable works quite soon or not as the case may be....................

Jim Jams and their place in history

It's nice to get into your pyjamas.

It evokes a feeling of comfort and safety that originates from my childhood.

I was privileged to come from a stable and loving home and that has been a strong influence in my adult life and in my own attempts at being a parent.

I am grateful for this and have come to realise that the freedom to wear my pyjamas whenever I felt like it, although perhaps seeming a bit superficial, was indicative of an overwhelming sense of well being.

An opportunity to do this on a working day can be few and far between nowadays as there is pressure on those in employment to maintain their status if only to stand still in terms of meeting the basic costs of a normal lifestyle.

It can be a real treat when everything falls into place to allow pyjamas to be adopted as the outfit of choice. The sensation is increased if it is still daylight outside.

This can take some forward planning to ensure that there is food in the house especially as many of the large Supermarkets have for some time imposed a ban on shoppers turning up in their nightwear to do their shopping.

There is a photograph posted up in the office, taken by a member of staff on her way in to work of two women stood on a the forecourt of a petrol station and convenience store at about half past eight in the morning in their dressing gowns, each clutching a loaf of bread and half a pint of steri-milk.

It was a vision of a past age and culture. This will have been a commonplace sight in the urban areas of the UK some fifty years ago in the good old days of the corner shop and therefore only a short dash for early risers to acquire their cigs and consumables straight from their beds.

It is also necessary for full enjoyment of pyjamas that there is a low likelihood of people calling to the house as greeting visitors on the doorstep can be a bit embarassing. I have paid the window cleaner whilst so attired and he has not let me forget it with a tirade of tiresome jokes about my habit which has persisted for a good few years now.

With the necessary safeguards in place it is possible to relax and enjoy the evening without fear of ridicule or intrusion.

In my pyjamas the reminiscences of childhood flood back.

I remember running around in the back garden in my Captain Scarlet jim-jams on those balmy and sultry summer evenings.

Then of course there were the long night time car journeys back home from grandparents when my siblings and I travelled in pyjamas under our clothes so that after falling asleep with the motion of the vehicle we could be just lifted out and tucked up in our bed.

I was a right one for feigning a tummy ache to avoid having to go to school and if successful in convincing my parents I could look forward to a full day in pyjamas on the settee watching television and dining on chicken noodle soup and lucozade. Happy days indeed.

As a student I also spent a good proportion of my time in pyjamas but did feel a bit of a fraud if invited to a pyjama party.

As a parent I am proud to say that my own family have jealously guarded reserving a precious day between Christmas and New Year as an exclusive pyjama day when we just laze around, catch up an DVD's and feast on the contents of the fridge.

We are not by any means complacent and indeed just this year two of the family introduced the Onesie to the occasion but to tell the truth I am not entirely convinced of its role in the proceedings.

(reproduced from 2012)