Sticks and Stones

With the growth of residential area in our towns and cities comes the interesting subject of giving all of the new roads and streets their own identifying name. 

The Statutory Provisions regarding street naming are actually enshrined in the UK in the 1925 Public Health Act- sections 17 to 19. Street names are also covered by British Standards BS7666-1:2006 and BS7666-2:2006 with the intention to use these tools to provide a consistent system across the country so that each area can be identified by address and within a grid reference point. 

Local Authorities subscribe to the Public Services Mapping Agreement (PSMA) through which they receive all mapping data. 

The Data Co-operation Agreement (DCA) requires each Council to provide street and property data to a national hub in accordance with published and nationally recognised Data Entry Conventions Documents. 

Accurate meaningful and timely street naming is of course of critical importance to the emergency services and other Agencies in the delivery of their commitments and services. 

Street names and numbers comply with the following constraints. 

A street will not normally be named after a living person apart from in exceptional circumstances. Use of the names of the deceased must have full acceptance and consent from the respective family or their estate administrators. 

Streets are not normally named after a locality, town or settlement. 

There must be no duplication of a name which is in use within the same local authority boundary, in the same post town or if already in use in a neighbouring council area. 

Any names that could be construed as advertising or marketing are not acceptable. 

The use of numbers within a street name which could be confusing or misconstrued should be avoided. An example would be 20 Seven Foot Lane which sounds like 27 Foot Lane. 

The street name cannot be longer than 100 characters. 

Abbreviations should not be used although a rare exception is "St" for Saint. 

Only streets which are pedestrianised should be suffixed by walk, path, way or mall. 

The use of 'apostrophe s is to be avoided as it could be seen as in some way possessive or plural. 

Where a house builder is thinking about names for their newly built residential estate they can submit their ideas to the local Council. This gives the respective local authority three options. The first is to make a choice of those names suggested by the developer. The second is to object to any or all of the names and finally not to select a name at all. 

Of course there is the intention for all Parties to co-operate and very rarely is crisis point reached in the process. 

Half a Truth

It is important to always read the small print. 

It is a sign of our times that there are those out to mislead, bamboozle and fleece either intentionally or not and they can put a veneer of respectability on it by disclaiming everything in the miniscule text somewhere at the end of a document or on-line application. 

In my case the small print was on a nice, compact and glossy brochure for the Cornish Tourist attraction of Tintagel Castle. 

It is a magical place, there is no doubt about that whatsoever.

Imagine a perfect location for a fortress, add to it the moody sea, an endless sky, a cave, a tortuous walkway access and a legend. 

Tintagel is intrinsically associated with King Arthur and his entourage, the Knights of the Round Table. Everyone knows the tales of gallantry, questing, romance, betrayal and nobility centred on the boy turned king who pulled the sword out of the stone, the mystical wizard Merlin, the heroic Sir Lancelot and the perhaps fickle and impressionable Guinevere. 

My first experience of Tintagel could not have been more magical. 

We were on a family holiday in a static caravan, incidentally manufactured in our home town some 200 plus miles to the north. On a particularly wet day we had steamed up the car on a drive along the dramatic Cornwall coast looking to tick items off our checklist of the perfect English seaside vacation. We had feasted on battered fish, chips and mushy peas ( the main cause of the aforementioned steamed up vehicle), bought ice creams in a beach-side car park, spent a few pounds in the amusement arcade and looked afar on a huddled group of sad looking donkeys in the lee of a line of camper vans parked up, their owners waiting for the cry of "surfs up". 

For all of these highlights the day was still dark, gloomy and wet. 

As we headed back on the inland route to our caravan pitch I remembered having seen a leaflet earlier on the noticeboard in the chip shop about a puppetry enactment of the  Arthurian Legend  that very evening at Tintagel Castle. 

The place was not too much of a diversion from the cosy caravan. 

The idea went down well with the family in spite of their damp clothing and over indulgences. 

As if conjured up by Merlin himself the weather improved remarkably. Two hours later, by the time we made our way across the elevated wooden bridge and cliff hugging pathway onto the plateau of the castle ruins it was the the most wonderful summer evening you could hope for. 

The performance portrayed by the marionettes and their handlers caught the very essence and mysticism of the characters and story lines. Our children, now all in their 20's often recall with great fondness the ambience, emotion and humour that we were fortunate to see. 

Just last year we revisited Tintagel. Somewhat older and perhaps a bit more cynical and critical there was, nevertheless the same feeling of history and that age of chivalry embodied by Arthur and his Round Table Knights. 

Rather than a theatrical rendition there was now a visitor centre with film show, gift shop and cafe with everything available in every global language, such is the fame of the legend. 

I sat quietly on a slab of exposed rock at the highest point of the promontory rock looking out to the Atlantic Ocean trying to recall what I knew about the stories of that era. 

I knew by instinct that the  Court of King Arthur was the epitomy of equality , honour and chivalry. The Cornish ethic of gallantry was a strong strain running through everything. In movies and literature there was humanity, frailty, vulnerability and a deep conflict of emotions surrounding the main protagonists. Even though my period of contemplation was on a cooler september day I felt a warm glow of pride and nationalism at the very thought of being in the very birthplace of very English idealism and spirit. 

I thought about getting a memento of my visit. 

Part of the rocky slab on which I was sat was loose and so I pocketed it in my cagoule. I was happy with a piece of our heritage, and  not at all guilty about vandalising a national monument. 

Back at the cafe, sipping a latte I was browsing through yet another tourist leaflet. The small print left me reeling. 

There was no foundation whatsoever that Arthur lived or even visited Tintagel Castle. It appears that the whole legend may be a complete fabrication. There is no authoratative record of anyone called Arthur in that era. 

The fifth and sixth centuries were the Post-Roman Period in England when everything was up for grabs by the previously suppressed indigenous tribes and European Invaders. 

There was scope for a hero to come to the rescue and restore peace and tranquility from the anarchy. 

It is now thought by academics and historians that the saviour was more likely to have been a Roman Administrator and with Camelot possibly the Romano-British settlement of Colchester. 

The Arthurian Legend was embellished in the Medieval Period, some 800 years later by the likes of Geoffrey of Monmouth and other speculative writers under the guise of historical fact. 

There may not have been a Round Table. The French introduced the idea of The Holy Grail in their own versions of folk tales. 

I am a bit disappointed by these revelations but not surprised. It appears that, as we all may have suspected, the very essence of Englishness so often grounded in the Arthurian Legends is in fact based on a banker of Italian origin and our near neighbours in Europe. 

Nothing has really changed.

Remembering Donald

Although always with us in daily lives we feel particularly close to Donald, our beloved Father whose passing was 9 years ago today. This is a favourite of mine from the vast treasure trove of memories that came from fantastic parents in an idyllic childhood. 

According to official Government guidance there is a critical time in any car journey taken by parents and children when everything kicks off and what could be a nice day out deteriorates into a big rumpus. A Survey of motorists has suggested that at precisely two hours and thirty seven minutes any children become agitated and begin to ask that question that crosses successive generations "are we nearly there yet?".

Within fourteen minutes of this sign of boredom chances are that arguments start to break out.

I am disappointed and a little bit disillusioned when I see a car full of children but none of them are actually looking out to see or apparently show an interest in where they are on their journey.

It is a case of heads down with hand held video game or slightly raised up but only at the TV screen set in the rear of the front head restraints.

Granted, when I was a nipper the most sophisticated piece of in car entertainment was an I-Spy book, Travel Mastermind, suppressing being sick or squabbling with my brothers and sisters whilst we sat stuck to the black vinyl seats of the family VW by the back of our bare legs and becoming increasingly hot , frazzled and irritable.

Otherwise, to wile away the miles of a long trip such as to our annual summer holiday in Scotland, Northumberland or Norfolk it was a case of watching the world go by out of the window if you had baggsied a seat to take advantage of it.

In the days before compulsory seat belts for back seat passengers it was easier to stand up behind the driver or front passenger and view from there.

I developed a great interests in the sights on the open road and this persists even today.

There were the landmarks that signalled our imminent arrival at a regular holiday venue.

Crossing the iconic Tyne Bridge in Newcastle meant that in just over an hour the distant turrets and towers of Bamburgh Castle would be in view and in a few more minutes after that we would be running through the loose, hot sand of the dunes onto the vast, wave lapped beach that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the known world, at least that in the perception of a 10 year old.

We would collectively count down the miles to the border with Scotland, always greatly anticipated but never failing to disappoint being marked only by a large blue and white thistle sign rather than a crossing into a strange, mist swirling, mountainous wonderland of lochs, glens and warlike kilt clad pipers.

It appears that Scotland is more of a frame of mind to a 10 year old than a momentous and deeply felt experience, at least for us children of half Scottish origin. My Father, an authentic Scot but born in Croydon was always a bit dewey eyed and emotional when safely reunited with his Kinsfolk for those two weeks of the year, give or take long distance travelling time.

I could be a bit of a nuisance in that I would always announce the obvious landmark or feature even though evidently visible and appreciated by all the occupants of the family car. I recall getting a slap on the leg by my parents, deservedly so in hindsight for my persistent chanting of "it's a dam", "it's a dam", "it's a dam" after seeing a dam somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It had been signposted for miles but I could not contain my excitement at the thought of seeing it. Not that I really knew what a dam was for. On my return some 30 or so years later I could just not see what all the fuss was about. My own children saw it as a grassy bank holding back an expanse of cold and faintly rusty coloured water. That was all.

I did become quite an expert on geographical phenomena and even more so after really taking to my senior school lessons in that subject. On the journeys to or through the more interesting parts of the British Isles I could easily identify a burial mound as opposed to just a grassy knoll, an ox bow lake rather than a pond, a scree slope from just a pile of loose rocks, granite precipices from chalky downs, a dry valley from a wet one and so on.

The majority of my fond memories have one thing in common. They were all part of the build up to a great family holiday. Conversely, when the fortnight was over and that was almost in the blink of an eye or so it seemed, there were those landmarks that signalled, as Mother always said, that we would soon be "back to normal", ie home life, school and all that went with those sorts of things.

These included flat, boring landscapes only broken by the looming presence of the power station cooling towers or the pit head winding gear near Doncaster. Then there was the reddening skyline above the huge British Steel Works at Scunthorpe as we came to within 10 miles of our home town and soon, on the farther horizon the white painted post windmill at Wrawby.

The drive up the slightly elevated and winding estate road to our house was depressing for those of us still awake even after melting into the plastic of the uncooled car interior.

We children then dopily went to check that our bedrooms had not been ransacked or pillaged by unknown imagined persons. We had no thoughts whatsoever to offer our exhausted parents any help in unloading the car of the detritus of two weeks under canvas or in a small caravan with five kids.

Now that I am a father myself I can appreciate that the anticipation and excitement of travel as felt by children is simply reversed in the grown ups.

Whilst the journey to and arrival at a holiday venue is undoubtedly exciting it does not mean a rest from the chores and responsibilities for adults.

Indeed it invariably means that it is the same work but made harder and more challenging in a different and unfamiliar environment.

The coming into view of the Doncaster wastelands and the intrusive industrial processes that made that part of the country the powerhouse that it was in the 1970's must have been a welcome sight and with it the promise of a slightly easier existence for our parents.

They hid their hopes of a brief respite and return to normality from us at the time and it is only really now that I am able to appreciate that particularly skilful trait of practical and effective parenting. Margaret and Donald, my heroes.

Clearing the air

Foggathorpe. Interesting name for a small, very small village which straddles the main road from Market Weighton to Selby. 

Village may be a generous label for what is in effect a collection of buildings which give the impression that they turned up expecting something big and momentous to happen at that very geographical location but were ultimately disappointed.

The largest structure appears to have been a roadside inn but as with many similar establishments in this country its fate was sealed with the introduction of the smoking ban and the absence of a celebrity chef to pull in foodies from all over. There are some signs of its former stature but it now appears to be a family house. With the consumption of alcohol came the antidote of Methodism and close by is a squat and symmetrical Primitive Chapel, its foundation stone eroded so as to confuse any chance of dating the build other than 18......something.

Other premises will have served as the shop and/or Post Office when the local population were able and happy to patronise their own amenities but now it is but a short drive for the 233 residents (2001 Census) to the wide range of retail facilities in the much expanded former coalfield town of Selby.

A few older cottages have survived with their shallow forecourts giving only a small buffer zone to the frequently thunderous passing traffic. Their brickwork, once bright and defined in Flemish Bond is now drab and vague with a grubby coating of dirt and grime thrown up in the wake of the flow of vehicles.

Artisan dwellings have been lost to new infill development but of a bland executive box type with the only concession to former style being the use of reclaimed or sympathetic brick. The traditional brick patterns have gone however with thermally efficient cavity walls in a boring stretcher bond. Mimicking Flemish with cut headers would be out of most self build budgets.

I drove through the village today, as I have on many previous days en-route, to work in North Yorkshire but unlike other times I took the left turn at the crossroads marked by the former public house in its south-east quadrant. Station Road ,in name, gave a clue that Foggathorpe may have enjoyed better accessibility until the railway line will have axed by Dr Beeching on the basis of unsustainability of the rural service. A pair of five bar gates on either side of the narrow lane mark the old crossing point but I could not see the usual lodge type house which served as the tied accommodation for the railway company employee and family. A slight turn in the road and I had left the village/hamlet/community.

It was a brief relationship and I did feel a bit sad about it. This was compounded by the later discovery that my favourite thick leaf book,  "Pevsner's Guide to East Yorkshire" had no reference at all to the place and the frontispiece map of the county was blank where Foggathorpe should have been.

It may be time for a campaign to restore it to the map. I have given this some thought.

Unfortunately if Pevsner cannot conjure up anything of noteworthy mention, even a stone milestone marker, mounting block, obscure monument or a building or feature of local architectural or historic interest  then there is little chance of anyone doing so.

Foggathorpe sounds a bit Scandinavian in origin but according to the inventory of the Domesday Book it was given to the Standard Bearer of William the Conqueror for reward of service and at that time was called Fulcathorpe . 

The other claim to any fame if it can be called that is that the hamlet gives its name to the local soil type.

Perhaps the occupants could adopt the full  geological terminology as a unique selling point although "slowly permeable seasonally waterlogged stoneless clay and fine loam" would take up an extremely long road sign rivalling that of the much more tourist friendly Welsh exponents of the same.

On the day of my passing through the morning had been blisteringly hot but standing water across the carriageway indicated that there had been a series of the now common flash-flood inducing downpours in the preceeding hours.

The impact of cool rain on overheated tarmac threw up  a strange tropical mist which lapped and enfolded the car. The impression was of motoring through a swamp like atmosphere of truly science fiction proportions.

It all made sense to me at that point and Foggathorpe will remain with me as a descriptive word for such fascinating weather phenomena. 

I will of course be sending a collective apology to its 233 souls for what may be seen as a bit of an insult on the place that they obviously love.

Bombay Mix and Match

 I am bemused and confused by that very English saying of "a little of what you fancy does you good" or the rather black humour version of "what won't kill you makes you stronger".

In simple terms ,for the simple man that I am, it is nice on that rare occasion when time, mood and finances come together to treat yourself to that something special.

My "little bit of fancy" in this context is a particular food snack item.

I can easily consume huge amounts of the stuff in a single sitting or eke a supply out over an evening, at a push, even with the best intentions of trying to make it last for a few days.

Those who know me well are already guessing at Sherbet Fountains, true, a delicacy and luxury item but not a food snack in any respects.

I am referring to Bombay Mix.

I love it but it is not a mutual feeling.

I should really abstain from eating such a spicy mixture as it does not always agree with my digestive system but the temptation to devour copious amounts of it is just too great.

The typical scenario for a Bombay Mix session is as an evening snack, just after my tea has settled down and I am looking for an easily managed foodstuff to compliment a TV schedule. You know the sort, reasonably dry, capable of being poured into a cup or bowl, finger suited and not of any real potential for damage if spilt down your front or onto the furnishings.

Crisps may suffice but when compared to the range of flavours , textures and sensations in a typical Bombay Mix they are very much pale offerings.

My first experience of this taste of the East was in a roundabout way down to the influence of Idi Amin, former dictator and despotic ruler of Uganda.

No, he did not endorse it on a celebrity cooking programme but indirectly promoted it in a more sinister way through his expulsion of the indigenous Asian population to the UK in the 1970's.

It was through our befriending of a family of Ugandan Asian refugees that I had my first taste of a Bombay mix.

I was of course too English and ignorant to enquire about its authentic name when it was kindly offered upon our visits to the old RAF Base where temporary and cramped accommodation had been provided to newly arrived families prior to re-settlement nationwide.

It was many years later that the anglicised name of Bombay Mix became commonplace to describe the delicacy , amongst other names, Chevda and Chanachur.

Our Asian friends had been forced at gunpoint out of their homes and with no opportunity to salvage  any meaningful possessions other than what they could wear or carry. Yet, their hospitality was far beyond what would be expected following the traumatic and harrowing circumstances of their forcible expulsion.

That first taste of authentic spices remains as strong a memory to my 50 year old palate as it did all those years ago. It was a technicolour explosion of exotica on an otherwise black and white staple food diet (No disrespect to you, Mother). There are now as many variations of Bombay Mix available as its constituent ingredients and the choice within the ethnic food aisles of our largest super and hypermarkets is extensive and mouthwatering.

The question I pose to myself is could I make my own version taking on board all of those that I have sampled in more recent years?

All of the ingredients are can be readily sourced from within a few hundred metres of my front door with the proliferation of continental and Asian foodstores as has taken place in the majority of UK cities and larger towns.

I do not anticipate any difficulties in obtaining and assembling the basics such as red lentils, Moong dahl, sunflower seeds, almonds, shelled pistachios, cashews and peanuts and the spices for the pungent and aromatic seasoning. These include cumin, dry powdered coriander, turmeric, chilli powder and salt. Schwartz can easily cope with such an order on their herb and spice displays in aisle 5 of my nearest Tesco. I may even include a few sultanas from a Bangladeshi version I once tried.

The most difficult task facing my culinary project is likely to be the production of an authentic dough to be deep fried and to form the distinctive crunchy strands that are the inherent characteristic of the snack. These are the elusive chickpea flour noodles.

Again, the elements are easy to source; the flour itself and yet more chilli powder, turmeric, salt, oil and lemon juice all formed into a malleable dough.

Panic, then what!

I do not have anything to hand in the kitchen to create the stringy lines for immersion in the boiling hot fat. This is the stumbling block because I need a Sev Maker. This is a cylinder with shaped interchangeable nozzles, a sort of stainless steel piping bag into which the dough is placed and then forced out straight over the deep fat fryer.

I will have to put that item of equipment on my Christmas List but in the meantime I have a secret stash of shop bought Bombay Mix just to tide me over until my production line comes on stream. Yep, they make and sell them in 5kg bags just for that type of emergency situation.

Trumping the Queen

It was, back in the early 1980’s, just a bit of harmless fun. 

If we attempted the same today we would, for certain,be shot on sight. 

Giggling a bit, as excitable 17 year olds are prone to do, a group of us made our way up a steep grassy bank and there in front of us was the splendour of the Humber Suspension Bridge. 

It was a mass of activity on the eve of the formal opening ceremony by Queen Elizabeth II which was to take place on 17^th July 1981. A grand civic event it was to be. 

After all, the structure was the longest single span suspension bridge in the world , a major feat of technical and civil engineering and deserving of accolade and acclaim. 

Work had begun way back in 1972 with the North Tower completed some two years later on the hard chalk bed rock of the Humber Bank. The need to establish the South Tower in a caisson to counter the shifting mud of the river meant it was a further couple of years before the task of spinning the cables to support the box road sections could begin. 

The sections, prefabricated on shore and then floated into position took from the autumn of 1979 until the following summer to be lifted and fixed to allow the road surface to be laid. 

Although the visit of HM The Queen was to be the highlight of the £90 million project the bridge was actually useable by traffic in June 1981 as a test period. The infrastructure features of the visitor car park and Toll Booths were well established and from the former we had started our stunt. 

Only one of us, all still at school, had a driving licence and use of a car at that time and so Dave, his real name, being that person was the natural choice to take centre stage in what we had planned. 

It should also be said that Dave was the only person with access to a formal dinner suit or tuxedo and although this was his fathers it was a reasonable fit. 

In a bid to tidy up for the ceremony the concourse in front of the north tower booths was littered with building materials and stray vehicles of contractors and the Bridge Board but this provided good cover for us. We were also out of the line of vision from the futuristic Control Room Building which was an advantage against detection. 

Like a well oiled machine we all knew our roles. Two of us attached the stringy ends of multi coloured cotton bunting to respective sides of one of the booth lanes and Dave, with his Mother’s best dress making scissors, made a ceremonial incision accompanied by a short speech along the lines of “God Bless the Bridge and all who cross over her”. I was not sure then as now whether a bridge is of the feminine gender. 

The fourth member of our clique took a few photographs as a permanent record of the event. 

Dave does the deed

We must have looked very dodgy and furtive but at no time were we approached or challenged by anyone of authority. This accentuated our feeling of elation and success although in truth we may just have been one of a succession of students with the same prank idea and that the Bridge Staff,  tired of being distracted ahead of the Royal Visit,  just turned a blind eye to our adolescent behaviour. 

The whole thing took just a few minutes but (sadly) forms one of the most satisfying moments of my otherwise very conventional and boring teenage years. 

As far as I know the official ceremony went off well but then again not surprising as our dress rehearsal will have ironed out any potential difficulties that the Queen may have experienced on her and the Bridge’s big day.

For our efforts we filled a page of the School Magazine and avoided any recriminations or suspensions.

Ghost Rider

Like most great legends, fables and myths the storyteller, in their role as the next voice in the timeline of its recounting , starts off with one or more of the following statements "I have not seen it myself", "Those who witnessed it have said" or "This is what I have heard". 

This announcement gives a bit of scope for a personal embellishment of the facts, some poetic licence or a few white lies and red herrings. 

I would tend to rely on the the third position in the case of a tale told to me in recent days. 

I was standing with a householder and looking out of a first floor window to their garden. Just beyond the back fence was the parallel arrangement of a two track railway line. I made the usual enquiries about the frequency of use of the line and if any resultant noise intruded on the occupation and enjoyment of the house. The combination of familiarity with the timetable over longstanding residence and the effectiveness in noise abatement of modern double glazing led the occupant to truthfully say that they did not notice it at all. 

At that moment a double carriage service passed by from left to right and yes, there was no tangible accompaniment of the clickety, click, clickety clack stereotypical soundtrack of a train to be heard from indoors. 

I made my usual joke of having failed to get the number of the diesel engine unit as just the once in my life have I owned a train spotters book and for a few weeks in a school summer vacation in the 1970's I had become a little bit obsessed with ticking off the listings. 

In order to reclaim some respect following this admission I started a general conversation or, if you like, a different train of thought. It was a story that I had come across in a roundabout way of a lady being thrown from a train on the very same railway line and more to the point no more than one hundred metres or so from our current location. 

The incident in 1853 had led to the unfortunate demise of the woman some days later from the injuries sustained by the attack, thought to have been disguised as a robbery but with plenty of speculation about a falling out of an extra-marital affair between victim and perpetrator. 

The story had at the time elicited much local and also national press coverage. 

My theme of locomotive based crimes and misdemeanours was continued by the householder. There was mention of strange goings on at the nearby railway crossing gates involving the periodic manifestation of a lady on a bicycle. Following on from "I have not seen it myself" it was relayed that on some occasions of the gates being in the down and closed position for traffic the apparition in female form would appear. 

Unusually for a ghost the figure had been clearly described by a number of startled motorists and pedestrians whilst held up at what is an awkward dog leg arrangement. Tall, thin and elegant the woman wore normal day attire for the late Victorian or early Edwardian eras of full length skirt, matching jacket over a blouse and with fancy trimmings in contrasting cloth. 

Although probably quite a casual outfit in the day it would certainly strike our modern consciousness as being quite stiff and formal. The bicycle, it had been agreed on by a number of witnesses, was a sit up and beg type with a high saddle and handlebar stance and a step through frame. Closer scrutiny may have included items consistent for bicycling in those years of a wicker basket and a skirt-catcher. 

Those who had seen the figure offered varied speculation on her identity. 

Residents close to the crossing would compare their own notes and offer opinions on this when chatting together in the forecourt frontages or over the back fences of the terraced houses, coincidentally dating from the same period as the appearance of the woman suggested. 

As important as who she might be was the reason for her haunting presence in this specific location. 

The authenticity of the claims of sightings appears plausible. The railway line, first opened in 1846, was originally developed by the York and North Midland Railway before being run by the more famous North Eastern Railway (NER). 

It ran from the City of Hull at its southernmost point all of the way up the East Coast of England to the genteel seaside and Spa town of Scarborough, with stations at Cottingham, Beverley, Driffield and Bridlington as well as numerous smaller stopping off points along the route. 

The style of bicycle was one of many brands emerging for public purchase from the late 1880's when innovations such as the pneumatic tyre (1888) and coaster brake (1898) made for easier use. In 1896 one writer stated that the bicycle and its accessibility had done more for the emancipation of women than anything else in the world. 

The outfit of the figure suggested a middle class lady perhaps a teacher or housewife either at leisure or going about some related business. In that era the streets close by were popular for residential development including for wealthy merchants, a number of Dutch persons by birth who had settled in horticulture in the district and an emerging Professional Class. The road, crossing the railway line, will in that era have been little more than an unsurfaced track although reasonably busy as a route to and from what was a growing suburban area into the rapidly expanding regional city and port town of Hull.  

In the case of this particular road crossing there will have been manually operated gates as part of the original operation. With a railway employee living in a tied house adjacent to the crossing for the purposes of operating the gates it was unlikely, but not impossible, that a road user would be at peril from being struck by a train appearing to rule out a haunting by a soul lost through such an accident. 

Was the lady waiting at the crossing to wave to a lover or sweetheart? 

Could the apparition simply be down to one of those time-warp aberrations that science fiction writers like to rely upon? 

Perhaps the bicyclist was just a regular commuter on that route and continues to ride it in the supernatural world. 

is an interesting story although I have not seen it myself.

Moving the goal posts

My home town football team just lost 8-0 this evening to bankrupt Wigan Athletic. This piece of writing is from a few years ago as another case of nothing going right for The Tigers

The evolution of the football goalmouth has been a long, contentious and occasionally lethal process.

In many instances of Shrovetide football throughout Middle Ages Europe the ‘goal’ was the rival town’s church  although rarely contemplated in those annual events of communal mayhem ,legitimised violence and the settling of personal or group feuds.

Chinese documents from 2500BC record the kicking of  objects through holes in a cloth stretched between sticks. By the first century BC, this had evolved into zu qiu, the Chinese word for football.

Around 200 AD, Roman armies indulged in harpastum, which involved kicking a ball but as a puny excuse to just fight each other rather than the Gauls, Germanics and other enemies of the Empire.

The Aztecs were known to have laced-up leather footballs and practised trying to slot them through holes in a wall, a bit like at the sideshows of modern travelling Fairs and Carnivals.

The first mentions of a physical goalmouth was in the late 16th and early 17th centuries as in a descriptive passage of “Two bushes in the ground, some eight or 10 foote asunder, they terme their goales.”

By the end of the 17th century, the idea was commonplace. An English Midlands play area was described in Francis Willughby’s Book of Games as having “a close that has a gate at either end. The gates are called goals"

There was, critically, no specification and the size of the goal continued to fluctuate until the newly-formed Football Association in 1863 deemed that posts should be eight yards (24 feet) apart, which remains, today, the official width of a goal.

So far there was no mention of a height  although some clubs ran a piece of string as a horizontal marker. It was not until the first ever FA Cup final in 1872 that a tape was strung between the posts replacing string and in 1875, experiments with crossbars began.

The crossbar was made compulsory in 1882, marked eight feet above the ground, but construction quality was an issue. In 1888, Kensington Swifts were disqualified from the FA Cup after one of their horizontals was found to be lower than the other.  A  goalkeeper broke a bar by swinging off it during an 1896 fixture.

In the increasingly competitive leagues it became common for teams to dispute whether a ball had actually gone under or over the bar or inside or out of the posts as it was sometimes difficult to tell.

The idea of goal nets, reputed to have been inspired by trouser pockets,  was trialled in Nottingham , quickly accepted into the official laws  and used in the 1892 FA Cup Final.

Issues remained over standardisation, however.

Square goalposts, strangely popular in Scotland became controversial when in the 1976 European Cup Final, Saint-Etienne  argued that, had the crossbar been rounded, a certain goal bound shot would have gone in. Instead Bayern Munich grabbed a second-half winner. Square designs were followed by round and then an elliptical shape .Crossbars today are scientifically engineered to counteract gravity and made from aluminium to replace wood.

There have been tragic consequences from the collapses of badly-constructed, heavy steel goal post structures in Public Parks but a change in the law, even under a campaign led by a grieving parent has not led to that all important change in the law.

Although seemingly perfect now there have been some in the world of football who have considered tinkering with goalposts.

Sepp Blatter, in 1996, toyed with the idea to lengthen the goals by the diameter of two balls, around 50cm, and to increase the height by the diameter of one ball. For once he was out-voted although logically, since the first goalposts in the late 19th century the average height of a goalkeeper has increased to 1.9 metres and so the target size has, in real terms, shrunk.

Modern football goals are now constructed from extruded aluminium or steel sections and comply to strict safety laws. FIFA have recently trialed goal-line technology integrated into the goal post to finally put an end to disputed goals.

Goalposts will always play a role in the professional and amateur game. As for my home team, Hull City. Well, in a crucial English Premier League match at the weekend,just passed , they hit the post four times, including an attempt on their own goal by the opposition but could just not score. They lost to a controversial penalty in the last quarter of the game and assumed the dreaded position at the foot of the table.

Rock-bottom boss Mike Phelan said: “It's difficult when your team are doing ever so well, you feel for them because you want them to score the goals and get the credit. If we can play like that, we just need a stroke of genius or luck to get us goals. The post is there to stand in the way of a goal and it did that a few times today.You have to have a wry smile on your face or you'd be very, very depressed."

Such was the opposing fans verdict that their team had been pretty useless that the vote for Man of the Match went, by an overwhelming majority to the goalposts.

So it came to pass that the football match at the London Stadium between West Ham United and my home team, Hull City added a further chapter to what is the weird and wonderful history of goal posts.

 

The Canoe

Rolled this one out again after being briefly reunited with the subject of this piece today in shifting it out of Mother's garage ahead of some re roofing works. 

A 23 foot long through lounge may have been top of the wish list for aspiring homeowners in the 1970's but for my Father it afforded an opportunity to build a canoe in the rear 11 feet whilst still retaining the front 12 feet, with settee, pouffe, coffee table and TV aerial socket for family use.

My Mother may have agreed to the idea prior to the commencement of the project but had she known that canoe launch day did not actually take place for another 2 years she may have had a different view.

The canoe was in kit form through a company called Ottersports and arrived in a very large box like an oversized Airfix model.

The particular project was entirely in wood which must have been marine ply or laminated .

The parts forming the hull had to be glued, taped and carefully pinned in position and some evenings and some weekends when not attending to family responsibilities my Father did a little bit more work on the single seater.

On finer days the work took place on the patio with the superstructure, bows and cockpit taking shape al fresco.

The lounge carpet held up well on inclement working days.

My parents, then in their early forties , had "Keeping fit Commando Style" on cassette and the same rear section of the lounge doubled up as a gym in early morning sessions . This was apt as many of the exercises around the boat assembly line took on the appearance of training for an amphibious assault.

Progress with the wooden torpedo was slow and my Mother took us kids off for a week after matrimonial relations became strained over the prolonged project.

I often thought that the all-pervading smell of varnish in the later stages may have contributed to behaviour otherwise totally out of character for a loving couple.

It was a very proud day for my Father when the completed canoe was loaded onto the VW roofrack as part of the mass transit that was the Thomson's going on holiday- estate car, boat, caravan, 5 children, overflow tents and chemical toilet, in fact all the trappings.

On it's maiden voyage what a machine the canoe was.

The steeply raked hull made for a very fast speed through the Scottish Loch but on the downside this was accompanied by considerable instability. It had the sensation of riding  white water rapids but in fact the surface of the Loch was nothing but a smooth mirror of water.

I seem to remember initial enthusiasm from us kids for a paddle but second requests were not forthcoming and we busied ourselves with looking for fish, bleached sheeps' bones and following severed fishing lines to find abandoned spinners and lures stuck in the rocky floor of the shallows of the Loch.

I must have put 'Experienced with watersports' on my CV as I soon found myself being pushed headfirst into a fibre glass canoe at my Scout Troop Hut in order to resin together the moulded hull and deck. It was a very unpleasant task indeed and only bearable for a few minutes and probably outlawed now in all but the most dodgy backstreet sweat-shops.

Was it my experience or as I suspect that I was undersized for my age and ideally suited to the fume laden , runny eyes and wheezy chest operation in the narrow confines only intended for the canoeists legs.

A bit later on my Father acquired another canoe - an open deck Canadian version for expeditions up river but it was just too heavy to be even lifted on and off a roof rack and I am not sure now that it ever had a christening under our ownership.

I am still fascinated by all things canoe and recently marvelled at a metal hulled Grumman canoe on the canal at North Frodingham. It was a  flat bottomed tourer in which the elderly owner regularly took his grandchildren and multiple dogs up river for hours on end with no jeopardy or instability even with an unruly and inquisitive crew.

I have some intentions to one day canoe the full navigable length of the River Hull from the Tidal Barrier to its deep set source in the hinterland.

My wife has expressed some concerns but it's not as if I'm going to disappear off the coast of Hartlepool and turn up in Panama.....is it?

There is to my knowledge no direct route from the Humber Bank Horsewash to South America - or is it there jjust waiting to be discovered..........?

Somebody at The Home Office

In the many and myriad TV offerings from the United States which tend to find their way to these shores, us Brits get a glimpse of the lifestyle and cultural influences of that fledgling and rather disparate nation. 

Some are strange to comprehend, very much mixed up in the loose association with something referred to as "The American Dream". 

In recent months we would not be blamed for assuming that characteristics of this are; 

a) that anyone can become President, 

b)there is a strong defence of the right to carry armaments (just in case lethal force is needed in an everyday domestic situation) and 

c) an overwhelming aspiration to being wealthy and obese. 

I am of course being a bit harsh and relying on stereotypes. 

One particular aspect of American life depicted by TV programmes is that of the Intervention. 

This is where family and friends take it upon themselves to confront one of their number in an attempt to steer them away from perceived self harm, destructive behaviour, unhealthy lifestyle practices and, this being a popular one, a feckless tendency not to be able to commit to anything. 

In my own life I have recently been the focus of an American style intervention. 

Before  you speculate on what grounds for drastic action may apply in my case  I should quickly clarify that the family conference arose on the matter of my work and how I do it. 

I have been self employed for the last 29 years in the property sector. Although I have a fully staffed and functioning office in an idyllic riverside location overlooking one of the UK's greatest architectural achievements my established mode of operation is to be out and about all daylight hours and then catch up with the paperwork in the evenings or from an early morning start. 

Balancing an often heavy workload and being very much a home-loving bod means that the best place for me to work, out of office hours, is from the dinner table amongst the welcome hubbub of the comings and goings of my family. 

I have always worked this way and my wife and three children have become accustomed to it. I accept that occupying half of the living space in the house is an imposition on normal family functions even when I sneak a few hours after everyone has gone to bed and before they are wake up. 

The inevitable baggage that accompanies paper-based work such as laptop, reference books, pro-formas and a pot of coffee does occupy a certain amount of space. A space on the table top was made for school text books when the children were doing their studying and a little bit of distraction in the form of questions and the muted sound from headphones I found welcome. 

When not being used the aforementioned items would be piled up on a nearby dining chair or on the sideboard not, in my understanding, causing anyone any inconvenience. 

Those warranting an intervention do not of course have any appreciation of what their actions and implications of their actions are doing by way of collateral damage to their nearest and dearest. There have been a few hints in the past. My pile of stuff would occasionally disappear from the table and chair and materialise in another part of the house. Although the dining table was, by default my office it was not exclusive and could be easily commandered for other activities such as Fuzzy Felt, Lego construction site and , oh yes, mealtimes. 

It took a move to a new house to give the family the idea of an intervention. By now two of the children were living away at college or for their first employment and so space was available for me to have a dedicated study/home office in a former  (temporarily as is turned out) bedroom. This was at the top of the house and to all intents well set up having a large work surface, good lighting and a cosy and warm environment. 

I occupied it happily adorning the walls with my framed cycling jerseys and bike memorabilia. It was, as they say, a man cave. 

However, something was not quite right. 

I had a feeling of being detached from the household. There was the sound of the television and that comforting hubbub of conversation from another place. I expressed genuine concerns, so as to thoroughly convince myself, that my habitual early morning working would disturb those sleeping in the now adjoining bedrooms. 

In what may have appeared like a covert operation I began to move my stuff back downstairs to the familiarity and ambience of the dining room. There was now an atmosphere of stand-off with the family, and I felt like an insurgent in a sovereign state. 

The full intervention was shortly to follow. 

The American version is a full-on affair but it is evident that us Brits can contribute an altogether more civilised approach. 

I am now the very happy occupant of a ground floor room at my house which my family have kitted out as a very pleasant work space. It has a fantastic eye level view into the public park across the road and I can, between concentrated work efforts of course, watch the world go by, man and dog included. 

Trouble is, my family now keep popping downstairs to find out why I am spending so much time in there.