Mean dogs here

The Hobo has a special place in the history and folklore of the United States of America.

Far from being a figure of hate or used as a bogeyman type reference to instil fear into impressionable children the Hobo has assumed a benevolent and enduring persona of unfortunate and downtrodden citizens forced out onto the open road in search of work.

The facts behind the rather romanticised imagery are of hard economic truths, of a displaced generation in an era, broadly the first four decades of the 20th Century, when social pressures, demographic changes and poverty were the ruin of many a mainstream livelihood.

In the early 1900's some half a million in the country had to seek employment away from their home areas.

The actual derivation of the word Hobo is unclear as not dissimilar words for a dishevelled lout exist in the English language as in hawbuck or hawbaw although the prime candidate is from the shout of railway workers when spying someone trying to hitch a ride of "ho, boy".

The Hobo has to be clearly differentiated from the likes of a tramp or a bum as the two latter descriptions were of non-working or just plain lazy types.

In spite of the popular perception of the Hobo as someone doing their best to make their way in difficult circumstances they were still an easy target for prejudice, violence or to attract the unwelcome attentions of Law Officers if anything went awry or amiss in a local community where a Hobo just happened to be passing through.

That well worn cinematic ruse of a hungry and exhausted Hobo taking a cooling apple pie from the open window of a rural house could result in the prosecution and incarceration of the individual concerned.

Somehow being in the same predicament served to galvanise and coalesce Hobo's into an informal fraternity or brotherhood even though there was a strong element of competition to secure the scant amount of working opportunities on offer.

The Hobo Code was developed for the mutual benefit of all.

A series of symbols of very simple and easily interpreted form arose and many a gatepost, picket fence or roadside structure was etched and carved with the appropriate warning or helpful advice.

These included a symbol for a woman, doctor no charge, housewife feeds for chores, food for work, you can sleep in the loft, keep quiet baby here, you'll get cursed out here, talk religion get food, bread, good for a handout, gentleman, a kind gentleman lives here, I ate, all-right(okay), hold your tongue, home heavily guarded, tell pitiful story, tell a hard luck story, fake illness here, anything goes, sleep in barn, keep away, work available, good chance to get money here, here is the place, help if you are sick, beware thieves about, telephone. poor people live here, jail, bad tempered owner, dishonest person lives here, man with gun lives here, mean dogs here, bad dog, policeman lives here, courthouse or police station, dangerous man lives here, judge lives here, nothing doing here, doubtful, owner home, owner out, good road to follow, stop, good place to sleep, safe camp, bad water, good water and good place to camp, hobos arrested on site, cops active, cops inactive, beware 4 dogs, good place to catch a train, trolley, tramps here, no alcohol town (dry town), go,  1 went this way, don't go this way, hit the road quick, get out fast, unsafe area,  dangerous place, danger, afraid, unsafe place , be ready to defend yourself.

I like to think that many of these symbols survive today where they were originally carved and configured and that their socio-economic value is appreciated and more so in the uncertain times that we find ourselves to be in the first quarter of the 21st Century.

Veni, Vidi....that’s all

My last posting was some 17 days ago. I have been on my holidays. The sights, sounds and experiences of the vacation in Thailand have provided me with a very rich range of things to write about. 

In the coming days and weeks I hope the various themes and subjects will not be too boring. 

By way of balance and contrast, in terms of providing background for future blogs, I have also been able to catch up on my reading as well as broaden my knowledge of the wider world and different cultural influences from those with whom I shared the vacation or came across along the 16000 mile round trip. Actually today's resumption of normal service is from my first day back at home in the UK. 

Here goes.

In my childhood a lot of inanimate objects had currency amongst my peer group. 

These included glass marbles, collectable and swappable cards for football players and teams, popular toys such as Matchbox and Tonka branded vehicles, soccer match programmes and memorabilia and of course, on a seasonal basis, conkers. 

This colloquialism refers to the natural oversized seed of the Horse Chestnut, a very widely found species of broad leaved deciduous tree in the parks, gardens and street-scenes of the UK. 

In the spring and summer months the trees have a splendid display of distinctive flower blossoms which as an observant child I always associated with the anticipation in September and October of a bumper crop of conkers. 

This was encouraging as I would not be the only one on the lookout for boughs heavily laden with the green, spiny shells in which the glossy and smooth conkers were concealed. 

It was a tradition, although crude and violent, for the Horse Chestnut, to be assaulted when in full and ripe canopy by Grandfathers, Dads, Uncles and older male siblings throwing up sticks in order to bring down the hanging conkers. T

The purpose of this was, in the first instance, to obtain the currency of the conker although in reality it was one of those age-old rites for males to prove their athleticism and vitality. 

In this way the area around any majestic Horse Chestnut in the autumnal months was always a scene of carnage and yet those leaving the scene of the crime with a carrier bag brimming with conkers were amongst the happiest and most rewarded on the planet. 

My own woody acquisitions were destined to be baked in a weak vinegar solution before being drilled through and laced with a knotted end length of string. 

In this way they stood the best chance of sustained victory in the very competitive and usually bruising rounds of conkering that dominated sessions in the school playground before, in between and after lessons. 

Many State schools right through from infants, juniors and senior level came to ban the traditional practice because of the inevitable incidences of cuts and swellings from a poorly aimed shot , the ricochet of a conker sent into a restrained orbit or one let loose in a shrapnel effect amongst the crowd of onlookers and participants. 

I have been both a keen player in childhood and a supplier for my own offspring as an adult. I am not proud that I have caused damage to the mighty Horse Chestnut. 

My house overlooks a city park and a row of ancient HC's, some of which date from the inception of this much loved Civic Amenity by a philanthropic former Lord Mayor in the 1860's. 

In an attempt to be absolved from my past misdemeanours I have scolded those who have been too early in the season to gather conkers. To seek redemption from Mother Nature I have also gathered up the complete shell encased conkers which have fallen naturally after a windy day and arranged them under the tree in a random pattern on the ground so as to be easily found by foragers and hopefully to avoid the need for male bravado and aggression in the time honoured way.

Even though a deep rooted tradition I have, on a year on year casual observation of the trees in the park, noticed that there has been a steady decline in the number and frequency of those seeking out the conker. 

This is somewhat against the demographic trend in my inner city surroundings where there has been an increase in births and those under 10 years of age.

On return from my holiday and my first walk, today,  through the park I came across hundreds and hundreds of shelled and loose conkers. 

These lay as they had fallen onto the grass or the circulatory road, the latter being subsequently squashed and exploded by passing traffic. 

Clearly, we have just passed the era of  peak demand for the conker and the sad waning of its value in the currency of childhood.

Integral

I had big plans for the garage at the new house.

I have, over the course of the last five family moves spanning some 30 years, gravitated towards a proper garage.

Our first property purchase, pre-kids, was a small terraced cottage, straight onto a busy village road, in effect a slip road for the M62 Motorway. It had, apart from a small landlocked yard, no actual external space and so the car had to run the gauntlet of the frantic traffic out on the street.

Next up was an old detached house with a concrete hardstanding out the back but access to it was through the car park of a Public House. This was not a proper right of way although obviously an ancient arrangement with the Landlord, perhaps from a former owner occupier who was a regular boozer. My non attendance at the lounge bar during the two years of living at the house was constantly remarked upon by the pub host and made me feel very awkward about using the access.

A further family move out of the area and to a terraced house was a regression to streetside parking and now with two vehicles this regularly tested our skills at negotiating congested spaces.

We rapidly outgrew that house and were able to buy a 1920's built semi detached place just around the corner in the same town.

This came with a side driveway and a detached garage.

On my wish list of property attributes these could effectively be ticked off but in practical terms there were some disadvantages. The driveway paralell to the front garden was just right to take our family transport fleet. This was fortunate as half way down the side elevation of the house a living room bay window jutted out forming a pinch point, past which any car could be taken but with all due diligence to prevent collision and abrasion.

The garage did look a bit forlorn being set well within the rear plot.

It was a substantially built structure in solid concrete blocks dating it to the 1950's, more so the roof in corrugated asbestos sheeting.

Highly likely to have been purpose designed for a specific motor car of the post war era the dimensions were not compatible with modern vehicles. This restricted use of the garage to a bike store, workshop and general dumping ground for children's toys, garden furniture, old barbecues and as a waste transfer station for rubbish until I had enough to make a trip to the Civic Amenity Site worth the effort.

It was a much abused garage, oil and paint splattered, a broken window in a wet rot deteriorated frame and foliage intruding through the roof. I did tart it up one summer with a dazzling whitewash on the external masonry, a new smart black gloss finish to the double doors and what I thought with some pride, having fitted it myself, as a big security upgrade- a big padlock.

This proved to be wholly inadequate as ,one sunday morning, I found that my best mountain bike had disappeared from the garage seemingly through teleportation as the padlock was still in position. On closer scrutiny the whole thing had been forced and by-passed with little obvious effort.

I felt sorry for the old garage, unloved, neglected and now a failure in providing a safe haven for the family possessions.

The new house, so called because having been built in 1977 it is the newest we have ever lived in, took garaging to a completely new level. Well, still at ground level, obviously, but of double vehicle size with an electronically operated up and over door and of integral status.

This sold the house to me personally, although other family members went for the upper floor living space and the view over a City Park.

I could imagine great things for the garage bay.

At last after nearly thirty years, a special area could be dedicated to all things bikes and bike bits, and fulfilling my long held fantasy of an array of  floor mounted and ceiling suspended frames and wheels. That would look super smart, efficient and very sporty indeed.

It was still big enough for me to indulge myself in, say, a classic car project. It was not that I wanted one but menopausal men of my age are expected to have something like that to keep them pre-occupied.

The very industrial concrete floor could do with a deep red or even a green surface finish as I had seen in workshop magazines. A few stylish metal racks and shelves would look good even if my selection of tatty tools and implements would look pitiful on them.

It could be my territory, a den, a refuge, somewhere to nail up my cycling memorabilia and relax in.

That was the ultimate intention but, alas, in the three years of residence, has not been so.

I am not bitter or resentful.

It is just that the garage has been subject to one of those unwritten laws along the lines of "if you have a wonderful space that could bring all of your dreams to life, then it is inevitable that it will soon fill up with everyone else's storage boxes, surplus furniture and miscellaneous items".

I will go into more detail on specifics over the next few days under the title of "Things the children left at home"

Sneakers

Ever since Pheidippides dropped dead after running to Athens with the news of the victory in battle at Marathon the Olympic Event carrying the name of the place of slaughter of around 8000 men has been dogged with misfortune and tragedy.

There has, to the last Summer Games in Rio de Janerio been just 29 competitive Marathons for the ultimate prize of Olympic Gold and just slightly less in the number of winners as some of the greatest athletes achieved consecutive victories.

For such a rare frequency of the race there has been a disproportionate amount of deaths, eventually fatal injuries and imprisonments amongst the victors.

This could be down to plain old carelessness given that Marathon Runners are very individualistic and single minded and therefore more likely to take risks or put themselves in perilous situations or as a matter of pure speculation -the curse of Pheidippides.

The 1928 Olympic Marathon winner, Ahmed El Ouafi was shot dead in a cafe in Algeria. Granted this was 30 years after his event but after applying the the law of averages he was certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The 1968 winner Mamo Wolde was later imprisoned for alleged involvement in State sponsored executions and civil liberty violations in his home country of Ethiopia.

Two time gold medallist at Rome and Tokyo Abebe Bikila died from injuries sustained in a car crash in 1969. Tragically the vehicle had been a gift for his sporting achievements from Emperor Haile Selassie.

Even the winner of the first ever modern era Marathon in 1896, Spyridon Louis, did time in jail for alleged involvement in a forgery racket.

Perhaps most poignant was the death of Sammy Wanjiru, the 2008 Beijing winner who was reported to have died after falling off a balcony at home. It was not clear if this was suicide or as the result of a domestic incident involving him and another woman being discovered by his wife.

Yes, these incidents all took place over a long period and given the total number of participants in all of the Olympic Marathons the number of fatalities or range of fates of those mentioned may diminish any conspiracy theories or bad Karma.

However, in the 1904 St Louis hosted Olympic Games the Marathon produced a catalogue of strange goings-on which could not be put down to bad luck.

In fact the whole organisation and officiating of that specific event in the Summer Games was heavily criticised. Although daytime temperatures were well into the 30 degrees the race was scheduled not for the cool of the morning but in the sweltering afternoon. Only 1 water station was provided in addition to access to a well. The main Organiser had made it known that he wanted to use the race to make a study of how the human body coped with dehydration.

The route was mainly on loose dirt roads and the entourage of accompanying vehicles stirred up such a complete dust storm that it nearly caused the death of the competitor, William Garcia who was found collapsed on the road and gasping for breath in the asphyxiating air.

In such difficult conditions of the 32 starters of the race only 14 were able to make it to the finish.

The American, on home soil, Fred Lorz came over the line in first place and was acclaimed and photographed before being disqualified. It transpired that for miles 9 to 19 of the Marathon he had hitched a ride in a car.

Thomas Hicks also of the USA was declared the winner although having taken a wicked concoction of strychnine (rat poison) and brandy as a riviver from his Coach he became hallucinated and had to be carried by his helpers , legs dangling in the air, over the line.

A competitor from Cuba, a Postman in his daytime job, stopped in an orchard on the route and after eating a few rotten apples suffered from stomach cramps. Even after a nap of some 20 minutes he finished fourth.

Most illuminating on the list of finishers were those in 9th and 12th place.

They were Africans who had been brought to St Louis as part of a sideshow gathering and had no experience of running a marathon. Their high placings had not been assisted by their being chased a mile off the official course by a pack of dogs.

The record books show that to the present day 9 of the Olympic Marathon champions have come from the continent of Africa.

Most Senior Citizen

This bit of writing goes back to June 2012..............................................................(see footnote)

I met a lady called Edith today.

We got on really well. Her dog took a bit of a dislike to me but it was one of those chubby, bumbling types who seem to chunter at everything from a utility bill through the letter box to a late delivery of the evening paper,the dull thud of wheelie-bin men and Jehovah's Witnesses. Still, the dog was only doing its duty and keeping guard.

Edith lives on her own in a busy street. She has rented the same house for the last 70 years. I always like to ask how long people have lived in a house when I visit. It is interesting to see their chain of thought as they compute how long. This usually involves a quick glance at a child, a pet or a cherished photograph of a lost, loved one. Edith told me that her son was 2 years old when they moved to the house and he is now 72 years old. The incongruity of having a son aged 72 fascinated me.

I was, fortunately, ahead of my busy work schedule and so I was, for once, able to talk with one of the most interesting people I have ever met in the over 100 age category. Edith's story is remarkable but even more so is the fact that she is of razor sharp mind, recollection and with a wicked sense of humour. I have about 66% of these attributes which made us broadly compatible in outlook and attitude which I found pleasing but also disturbing in equal measures given the considerable differences in all other aspects of our life stories and experience.

To put things into some perspective Edith was the age I am now in the year that I was born. This is a difficult thing to comprehend and appreciate but an opportunity to meet and chat with someone representing a generation twice or three times distant is a rare thing. She was born and brought up in Hull and the local area. It was a time when very few were inclined or compelled to leave the place of their birth not out of a lack of ambition or insularity but because many towns and cities of that period could provide for everything required for a normal, modest and hard working life.

The old sepia tinted photographs of Hull show a very distinguished and thriving Port Town with Trawlers and Merchant Ships parked on the doorstep of the city centre, some very striking commercial and Corporate buildings which would not look out of place in Edinburgh or Nottingham and always crowds of pedestrians in their Sunday best with a determined look of intent to get on with their busy lives.

I always make point of asking about the wartime experiences of longstanding residents of the city because it was a major chapter in the auspicious history of Hull and one that I am convinced still has some persistence even today in how the city has fared after the devastation and upheaval of that time. Hull was very much on the front line but has never received the righteous recognition for its strife.

Edith was but one of those bombed out of their terraced houses and in 1942 she took up residence where she now still lives. Whilst the rehousing will have been very welcome I would not, myself, feel much more secure given that the two properties were but half a mile apart. The gutted shell of the old house on Folkestone Street was only discovered by Edith upon her return from working on the Hull to Withernsea railway line one smoke filled morning after an all night shift.

The railway job was right out towards the east coast and I was able to identify many of the areas still strongly imprinted in Ediths memory. We spoke about Patrington, a small town but with a history of prosperity from the Middle Ages from sea trade and agriculture. Edith was married at St Patricks Church whose sheer size and grandeur testifies to the former wealth and status of the town. She worked in the signal box and also manned the road crossing just on the north western edge of town during the war years. She remembered the old Flax Mill, The White Hall, had attended Winestead School and we traded stories of Enholmes Farm, the Crown Estate cottages, local shops and  the rolling Holderness countryside. Of course, Edith had seen all of these in their halcyon days whereas my experience related to more mundane things and with many of the buildings now serving a very different purpose, mainly as private houses and not places of thriving business and employment.

Her ability to recall names, dates, places and events was astounding and when it was my turn to add a story or anecdote of my own I stumbled and 'ummed', and 'aahed' unable to extricate any sense whatsoever. Our mental ability and agility was, in effect, reversed which was a shameful thing for me to admit but it was true.

 The time sped by and I felt that I had known Edith for a good part of my life. I admitted to my hijacking of the Methodist Chapel at Easington for a good sing song rather than doing the job I was asked to do there and Edith found this hilarious. She had just been able to track down a hymn or anthem that her father had sung to her when she was a young child and the piano in the front parlour would soon be cleared of its resident soft toys for a nostalgic rendition of 'Pull for the Shore Sailor' by Philip Bliss (1873).

If we had had the music there and then I am convinced that the street will have resounded to our combined effort resembling a good old Sunday School sing song.

On leaving, reluctantly on my part , Edith with great pride showed me her telegram from the Queen for her 100th birthday just a few weeks before. It was signed in a very beautiful and delicate handwriting and not in any way rubber stamped or faked by a lady in waiting. I was impressed. The portrait photograph of the Queen was glossy but she did not look very happy with her own 86 years behind her but as Edith rightly said, that is the trouble with the young people of today.

Footnote;

I was thrilled just today, some 7 years after my first meeting, to be re-acquainted with Edith who at the grand age of 107 is the oldest person in Hull.......and going on strong!!!!!!

Wiggins wins Hull Stage

There is that saying "You should never meet your heroes because you will always be disappointed".

I can see the sentiment behind that.

For all of their charismatic persona and the esteem in which they are held for their particular achievements they are, after all, just human beings like ourselves.

Of course they have earned that status by their own sacrifices and efforts, have had greatness thrust upon them or they have simply been in the right place at the right time.

In all cases, bar none, there is a unique driving force, be it borne out of adversity, deprivation or having a massive initial inferiority complex that propels mere mortals into history or the record books.

All of the above and more were spoken about by Bradley Wiggins in his nationwide tour and his stop off in my home city of Hull just last night.

There is a current trend of "Audiences with...." amongst sports personalities. It is a popular format with a couple of easy chairs or a sofa on a stage and with a big screen and a few bits or memorabilia in the background.

Although undoubtedly well planned and structured with a bit of steering by a Media accomplished compere the Wiggins Show was candid and honest.

He is a complex character indeed.

To a significant extent the level of dedication and focus required to attain what he has in Amateur and Professional Cycling has kept him more than occupied and it is only now, in his early retirement phase (aged 39) that he has the luxury of time for reflection, retrospection and soul searching.

A bright yellow Pinarello road bike on which he completed his Tour de France win in Paris in 2012 and a portable rail of lycra and woollen jerseys are mentioned but in an almost dismissive way.

Wiggins has been there, done that and come away with a lot of very nice T shirts- thank you but was insistent that such trappings and markers of success did not define him as a person.

I got the impression that unlike many former sports persons he would not bore you with anecdotes and "back in the day" recollections or be roped in by former employees to accompany and inform VIP' Guests, Sponsors and dignataries over wine and nibbles at the start/finish line of major Cycle Events.

His is an outlook going forward.

The Knighthood and the plastic carrier bag in which he transports his Olympic and World Championship Medals are mere tokens to him.

Their real value is in what they can do in facilitating public attention and resources for his current and future plans which may be as far away from the world of cycling as you can get.

His early life in a single parent family and growing up in the peer pressure cauldron of an inner city Council Estate in London could have so easily set him on a different path. A genetic predisposition to sport was there with a Pro-Rider father but negated until adolescence in his absence through abandonment at a very early age.

In the meantime demographics and social influences could have led to involvement in crime had it not been for Wiggins attachment to his own idols and influencers seen in rare televised cycling in the late 80's and early 1990's.

Getting out on his bike was an actual means of escape from Kilburn and with a funnelling of natural skill and talent through proper coaching Wiggins was soon in a development programme for British Cycling.

He was in the first wave of individuals whose natural talent benefited from the scientific, technical and marginal gains aspects of the sport of cycling, a much more world beating approach to the no-less epic endeavours of Simpson, Hoban, Denson and many Brits who made their living on the continent in what was an exclusively small enclave of English speakers in the Peleton of Grand Tours and One Day Classics in the post war years.

The 70's and 80's required individuals to make their own way in Europe often slumming it to get a place in the leading amateur squads and with only a select handful making the grade to wear a coveted trade team jersey amongst the big organisations.

These were the days before big money contracts and income from endorsing products.

Wiggins has a great and obvious affection and nostalgia for the sport hence his tremendous collection of memorabilia once worn by Coppi, Anquetil, Merkcx and those with whom he raced at the end of their own careers such as Sean Yates, Maurizio Fondriest and, yes, Lance Armstrong.

So what is Wiggins' legacy to be?

Well, his record will have inspired many to follow. The Wiggins Cycle Team, unfortunately now in its last season has propelled new talent into the sport. He is a well known face to the British public even those who have no interest in cycling.

Actually, we may not yet be able to fully appreciate this for quite a few years to come as he has big plans for himself but the difference being that he is fully in charge, for once, of his own time and destiny.

High Seas and Low Deserts

There is a story line within one of my all time favourite movies- Master and Commander- where the British Naval Vessel, HMS Surprise is at risk from a far superior attacker, a French vessel which can easily out-run and out-gun the already rather battered and war-weary Captain Aubrey and crew. This is illustrated by the whizz and splash of french shells that periodically rain down around the escapees.

In an attempt to flee in order to enter into the fight another day as in the saying "the better part of valour is discretion" a clever bit of cunning subterfuge is devised.

A small rowing dinghy is rigged with a mast and sail and carefully laid out on a line astern of Surprise.

A set of screened lantern lights are hung on its mast yard.

When the small boat is in line with the bright and glaring stern lights of the warship a brave young officer exposes the dinghy lanterns and simultaneously the main ships lights are extinguished.

To the lookouts on the pursuing French ship this action, undertaken in a smooth and seamless manner, arouses no suspicion as to any material changes in the chase down.

After the fearless officer is dragged back by rope to HMS Surprise through the cold Atlantic waters an order is given by Aubrey to strike out in another direction leaving the hapless enemy following the decoy. Surprise in in the clear.

I was quite taken with this clever deceit and tried hard to think of a situation in which such quick witted-ness would be useful to in my very much more mundane existence. I could think of none.

However, in the pages of a best selling book which forms my current bit of culture and relaxation one of the characters, in real life, clearly exhibits the same downright cheek and nerve of the fictional Captain Aubrey.

The book is Born to Run by Christopher Macdougall in which he explores the mysteries of the human desire to get up and run.

It is a compelling storyline and very well told although it is sometimes hard to believe that it is a recounting of the true lives of athletes in the extreme and endurance activity of long distance running.

In Macdougall's description of a particularly arduous and downright dangerous long distance race through the sweltering desert landscapes of South West America one of the competitors, the odds on favourite for the event displays amazing cunning and guile to exact an advantage, albeit miniscule over his closest rivals.

Such is the hazard to life of the harsh environment and physical exertions that are required on the course of the ultra-extreme race that the participants are permitted to have friends and colleagues in support either as pacers or in accompanying vehicles.

This is quite a logistical operation in itself as the whole team need to be self sufficient and skilled in all of the complimentary disciplines of running from medical assistance to dietary planning, management of equipment and overall safety.

The front runner in this instance was ahead of the rest of the field but only by a small margin over the 100 miles of the event.

He instructed his helpers to progressively build up adhesive tape to the rear light clusters of the support vehicles as the race progressed in its night-time phase.

Although just a few hundred metres separated the leader from the rest of the pack this trick gave the visual impression of diminishing tail lights  and that the race leader was much farther up the trail and in fact romping away effortlessly when others were struggling pitifully in his wake.

Although very much to be frowned upon as an example of far from good sporting spirit I did have a bit of a laugh at the adaptation to a modern day scenario of the old trick exacted on an adversary in one of my favourite films.

Fat Free Middle

It is possible to overthink things.

Take our everyday need to eat.

It could be a simple snack on the go or a more involved and structured recipe.

Yet in involving ourselves with the ingredients and methods of a meal we are participating in a homage to the history of mankind, the trials and errors of past civilisations emerging from a hunter-gatherer existence to an agricultural based society, slavery, war over resources and huge changes in culture and lifestyle.

We seem to be at a crossroads at the present time with thoughts on, for example, reducing our intake of meat and moving across (although actually reverting)  to a plant based diet that in in effect what our ancestors thrived on all of those centuries ago.

In this way I have found myself taking the trouble to find out more about the stories behind particular foodstuffs.

This is not so much from the point of view of provenance, authenticity and food security which again are increasingly important considerations in our lives but the quirky and often contentious origins of what we accept as mundane and common products in our everyday consumption.

As an example, take the humble doughnut or in the American spelling, Donut.

Although not at all a healthy item this confection or dessert has been around in various forms since at least the late 18th and early 19th centuries although its simplistic flour dough composition suggests that it hearkens from much farther back in time, at least as long as bread and other baked products have been essential parts of a staple diet for a good proportion of the population of the world.

The doughnut remains as a popular purchase in particular as a natural, sweet accompaniment to a cup of coffee or in its own right as a means for a rapid intake of sugar and carbohydrate for refuelling in a busy existence.

There are two broad types from the full and filled to the distinctive ring doughnut.

It is this latter version that has an interesting back story.

The invention of a doughnut with a hole has always been claimed by a seafaring American, eventually rising to the position of Captain , one Hansen Gregory.

The inspiration , he claimed, came to him at the young age of 16 whilst he was just a humble crew member on a lime-trading schooner.

This is where rumour, gossip, hearsay , speculation and not a little confusion arises.

One version is that he was struggling to eat a dough ball whilst on duty at the wheel of a vessel on a particularly stormy night and to assist in digestion and navigation he squashed the item onto the handles of the wheel which gave him the idea of intentionally making a hole, as in to improve handling. The name of the ship was the Donati.

In tandem is the story that he found the fried cakes to be nicely cooked and browned on the outside but often as not completely raw in the middle. This made for an unpleasant surprise. By excavating the middle part this undercooked aspect could be avoided. Yet another version is that Hansen Gregory's Mother was the culprit in poor cooking and he came to her rescue by pushing out the raw middles

Hansen Gregory developed this idea and in his own words explained how he had taken the cover off the ship's pepper mill and used it to fashion out a perfectly round hole in an otherwise solid blob of dough.

Others have speculated that when fellow crew members fell overboard they struggled to keep afloat because of their over consumption of stodgy fried cakes. Hansen Gregory resolved this, apparently by again pushing out the middle. Is it pure coincidence that the subsequent appearance of a ring doughnut is similar to that of a life belt or preserver?

The doughnut cutter was developed further and was soon widely used by bakers and cooks throughout the United States.

The modern ring doughnut gave Hansen Gregory fame and recognition but obviously not great wealth in that he stayed at sea for his adult working life.

On a timeline for doughnuts there is some credibility in his claims.

Born in 1832 his light-bulb moment in the wheelhouse will have been in or around 1848. This is a good decade before popular doughnut recipes appeared in magazines and cookery books.

In American culinary history tin doughnut cutters were not produced on a large scale until after the Civil War.

Such was the debate over the origins of the ring doughnut that in 1941 the American Donut Corporation sponsored a debate held at the Astor Hotel, New York City.

In addition to Hansen Gregory there was another strong contender. This was reputed to have been a Nauset Indian who in an act of aggression against Pilgrim Pioneers shot an arrow through fried cakes as they cooked in fat in a pan. Upon returning after the hostilities the same woman found the first ringed doughnut.

Sadly, the doughnut has always been snubbed by those responsible for giving awards for product and achievements in the Baking World and although Hansen Gregory was nominated for a place in the Baking Hall of Fame, and posthumously as he died in 1921, he never actually made it to the top table, as they say.