Back to the Future

This passage from Robert Tressell's 'The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists'  from 1914 is where one of the characters outlines how the use of money under Capitalism enriches Capitalists and exploits the working class. The scene takes place as the building labourers take a hard earned break from their tools whilst renovating a large mansion for a wealthy local businessman. They are a very mixed bunch for all of their social standing. The dialogue starts with the enlightened character Owen seeking to show to those assembled that "Money is the cause of poverty because it is the device by which those who are too lazy to work are enabled to rob the workers of the fruits of their labour."

 I’ll show you how the Great Money Trick is worked.’, starts Owen focusing on his three closest workmates.

He opened his dinner basket and took from it two slices of bread but as these were not sufficient, he requested that anyone who had some bread left would give it to him. 

These pieces of bread represent the raw materials which exist naturally in and on the earth for the use of mankind; they were not made by any human being, but were created by the Great Spirit for the benefit and sustenance of all, the same as were the air and the light of the sun.

Now,’ continued Owen, ‘I am a capitalist; or, rather, I represent the Landlord and Capitalist class. That is to say, all these raw materials belong to me. It does not matter how I obtained possession of them, or whether I have any real right to them; the only thing that matters now is that all the raw materials which are necessary for the production of the necessaries of life are now the property of the Landlord and Capitalist class. I am that class: all these raw materials belong to me.’

You represent the Working Class: you have nothing and for my part, although I have all these raw materials, they are of no use to me . What I need is the things that can be made out of these raw materials by Work: but as I am too lazy to work myself, I have invented the Money Trick to make you work for me. But first I must explain that I possess other things beside the raw materials, these being the machinery of production; the factories, tools, railways, without which the necessaries of life cannot be produced in abundance. And these coins’ – taking three halfpennies from his pocket – ‘represent my Money Capital.’

It is most important that you remember that I am not merely “a” capitalist. I represent the whole Capitalist Class. You represent the whole Working Class.’

Owen proceeded to cut up one of the slices of bread into a number of little square blocks.

These represent the things which are produced by labour, aided by machinery, from the raw materials. We will suppose that three of these blocks represent a week’s work. We will suppose that a week’s work is worth one pound: and we will suppose that each of these ha’pennies is a sovereign. 

Now this is the way the trick works ..............’

You say that you are all in need of employment, and as I am the kind-hearted Capitalist Class I am going to invest all my money in various industries, so as to give you Plenty of Work. I shall pay each of you one pound per week, and a week’s work is you must each produce three of these square blocks. For doing this work you will each receive your wages; the money will be your own, to do as you like with, and the things you produce will of course be mine, to do as I like with. As you have done a week’s work, you shall have your money.

The Working Classes portrayed by his three workmates set to work, and the Capitalist class sat down and watched them. 

As soon as they had finished cutting up the bread, they passed the nine little blocks to Owen, who placed them on a piece of paper by his side and paid the workers their wages.

These blocks represent the necessities of life. You can’t live without some of these things, but as they belong to me, you will have to buy them from me: my price for these blocks is one pound each.’

As the working classes were in need of the necessities of life and as they could not eat, drink or wear the useless money, they were compelled to agree to the kind Capitalist’s terms. 

They each bought back and at once consumed one-third of the produce of their labour. The capitalist class also devoured two of the square blocks, and so the net result of the week’s work was that the kind capitalist had consumed two pounds worth of the things produced by the labour of the others, and reckoning the squares at their market value of one pound each, he had more than doubled his capital, for he still possessed the three pounds in money and in addition four pounds worth of goods. As for the working classes having each consumed the pound’s worth of necessaries they had bought with their wages, they were again in precisely the same condition as when they started work – they had nothing.

This process was repeated several times: for each week’s work the producers were paid their wages. They kept on working and spending all their earnings. The kind-hearted Capitalist consumed twice as much as any one of them and his pile of wealth continually increased. In a little while reckoning the little squares at their market value of one pound each he was worth about one hundred pounds, and the working classes were still in the same condition as when they began, and were still tearing into their work as if their lives depended upon it.

After a while the rest of the assembled group began to laugh, and their merriment increased when the kind-hearted Capitalist, just after having sold a pound’s worth of necessaries to each of his workers, suddenly took their tools ,the knives or the Machinery of Production away from them, and informed them that as owing to Over Production all his store-houses were glutted with the necessities of life, he had decided to close down the works.

Well, and what the bloody ‘ell are we to do now?’ demanded the workers

That’s not my business,’ replied the kind-hearted capitalist. ‘I’ve paid you your wages, and provided you with Plenty of Work for a long time past. I have no more work for you to do at present. Come round again in a few months’ time and I’ll see what I can do for you.

But what about the necessities of life?’ demanded the workers in unison. ‘We must have something to eat.’

‘Of course you must,’ replied the Capitalist, affably; ‘and I shall be very pleased to sell you some.’

‘But we ain’t got no bloody money!’

‘Well, you can’t expect me to give you my goods for nothing! You didn’t work for me for nothing, you know. I paid you for your work and you should have saved something: you should have been thrifty like me. Look how I have got on by being thrifty!’

The unemployed looked blankly at each other, but the rest of the crowd only laughed; and then the unemployed began to abuse the kind-hearted Capitalist, demanding that he should give them some of the necessities of life that he had piled up in his warehouses, or to be allowed to work and produce some more for their own needs; and even threatened to take some of the things by force if he did not comply with their demands. 

The kind-hearted Capitalist told them not to be insolent, and spoke to them about honesty, and said if they were not careful he would have their faces battered in for them by the police, or if necessary he would call out the military and have them shot down like dogs, the same as he had done before in similar situations of civil unrest in the country.

(This is a slightly abridged version from the original text. Very much in my thoughts after the re-election of a Conservative Government in the UK in December 2019)

Porridge and Cocoa

Buying a house in an old part of any City or town makes a bit of research into just what used to occupy that very spot very prudent.

I find this a very interesting aspect of my work and with the amount of archived information in the public domain it is a very much easier exercise than when I first started in the Surveying Profession over 30 years ago.

My first job in Hull in 1985 was for a long established company, in fact celebrating their centenary in that very year.

In a large multi-drawer chest in the Georgian era offices was an unrivalled collection of Ordnance Survey Maps for the area, many of them printed on hessian or canvas. If I needed any essential background information on a specific bit of land or individual property these were vital in that they were superbly detailed as you would expect from documents issued on behalf of The Crown. They were superb examples of the art of Topographers and you could not avoid just gawping in admiration at the detail and print quality.

What struck me, as a relative newcomer to Hull in the 1980's was the huge amount of housing and buildings in general that no longer existed around the central area of the city in particular.

Street maps even from the early to mid 20th Century were a dark mass of structures from high density slums to expansive premises and large districts in commercial and industrial use.

Their demise and in such quantity and area had been a combination of intentional Borough clearance of the substandard residential properties, heavy wartime bombing and from the 1950's a ruthless demolition of just about everything else including whole streets what would be considered today to be prime candidates for gentrification and sympathetic restoration.

The rich maritime heritage of Hull, unfortunately, also fell in large swaths to the same forces, whether supposedly friendly or marauding airborne foe.

Little remains of the quayside warehousing and only the Old Town and High Street retain landmark and historic buildings in any concentration.

Pausing to scan old maps is really the only way to appreciate what Hull used to look like and yes, it was as grand, wealthy and a prestigious place as you would fully expect for such a rich history, and strategic and economic clout at various times in the story of the country.

One very interesting physical feature that popped up during my investigation of former land use in what is now an area of regenerated former docklands and railway sidings was a large circular building which I can only really describe as looking like the spaceship from Star Wars, The Millenium Falcon just sat awaiting refuelling or re-supply before another intergalactic adventure.

The map labelling indicates it to be The Borough Gaol and House of Correction- a fancy name for a Municipal Prison.

The location may seem unusual in that it is in a fully built up urban area, adjacent to housing, and for those plotting an escape there are good transport links in the form of freight rail lines and shipping quays.

It is this latter piece of infrastructure that gives a clue as to the positioning of the prison.

It was primarily to temporarily hold convicts awaiting penal transportation to the Colonies.

The building was erected in or around 1829 as a replacement for Hull Bridewell and older premises on Fetter Lane in the Old Town area.

Its design will have been quite revolutionary and innovative comprising a central hub which contained the control room and from this in a spoked arrangement the five main wings of cells and for the ancillary and support services required for the day to day management and services.

I have not seen anything similar in any other city and urban areas.

For all of its aesthetics and functionality it will have been a grim establishment and particular so for the 650 of its inmates who did eventually get shipped out to serve their time on the other side of the world.

One famous episode involving an inmate was the well documented escape of Thomas Foster on 2nd June 1860. He was serving two sentences, the first being 7 years for breaking into a slaughterhouse and attempting to steal two legs of pork and the other just 3 months for assaulting the arresting Police Constable. He was put to work in the Borough Gaol making mats out of cocoa fibres. Somehow and likely down to lax supervision he was able to make, out of the fibre, a rope some 51 feet long which he used to escape from his cell on the third floor with the aid of a grappling hook.

The building closed in 1869 and all traces had disappeared from Ordnance Survey maps by around 1891 making way for an engine shed and extensive dockside railway sidings.

As I stood in the kitchen of the modern town house that now occupies the very same piece of ground I felt a shiver down the length of my spine at the thought of those souls who had trodden there before me.

Flight Socks and Mini Series

For a few seconds, upon waking,  I was not exactly sure where I was. 

The points of reference in the blackened out room were few and far between with the exception of the sensory assault imposed by a fast moving ceiling fan. 

I was not at all used to the sights and sounds of this crude type of ventilation and it had, at regular intervals during the night, caused my slumber to be interrupted and disturbed. There was, naturally, the option to just switch it off but this was Thailand, a tropical climate and our Northern European intolerance to heat and moisture made its incessant operation absolutely necessary. 

Although a rarity in UK housing apart from in a conservatory or retro 1970's bedroom my main appreciation of a ceiling fan was from the movies where it figured highly in depicting a sweaty and rather menacing atmosphere in a thriller, murder story or horror themed action. 

I should have slept more soundly on that first night on Ko Samui given that we had been travelling non stop since 11am the previous day. That was the take off time for the flight to Singapore from Manchester. 

I was determined to use the opportunity to catch up on the box sets, film releases and general media that had eluded me because of work and other commitments. There are no distractions from binge watching whilst faced with a sophisticated multi-platform entertainment and viewing system which is right there just centimetres away from your face in the seat back of the next row. 

In the ensuing eleven airborne hours with only a few breaks to unwrap various pre-prepared meals and snacks I got through all of episodes of Chernobyl, the animated Missing Link, a back catalogue of Black Adders, one short burst of Games of Thrones as a bit of a spoiler as I have missed so much since Series 1, some pop videos, excerpts of soundtracks and Greatest Albums of a few of my performing favourites, an awful movie called Brightburn which I had to watch to the very end to come to that opinion, a few comedy shows and periodic checking on the flight plan to find out where we actually were on the globe. 

It had been a wavy lined course eastwards across Northern England  and the North Sea followed by landfall with Denmark, Poland, the Baltic States, a large part of Russia to just above the Caspian Sea, Kazakhstan, Pakistan, Tibet, India and then a swath of the Bay of Bengal to skirt the Western coastline of Thailand, Malaysia and then into a smoke filled environment from the burnt forests of Indonesia which shrouded the skies above Singapore. 

What then threw me completely was the crossing of various time zones. 

In real time we should have landed in Singapore at around 10pm but with the sudden jump of plus seven hours we were actually arriving at around breakfast time. That made the absence of a snooze easier and with the excitement of the holiday I did not feel at all fatigued. 

The contrast in the second and ongoing flight across to Thailand was stark compared to the luxury that we had just been cosseted in. 

Although a partner company to Singapore Airlines the evocatively named Silk Air operator was cheap and cheerful. We boarded an older and much smaller jet with nothing by way of in flight entertainment. That was not at all important as we were getting closer to our destination and in anticipation of the meet up with my wife's Australian family members. 

The approach to the Tropical island was a bit bumpy in the midday heat haze but below us was a clear blue ocean. Then we caught sight of the pearl that is Ko Samui with its golden sandy beaches, lush vegetation covered hills and contour hugging villages overlooked by imposing gold burnished Buddhist Temples. 

It had been a long journey but it would take the mesmerising rotation of the ceiling mounted fan to bring me to the realisation that yes, we were pretty exhausted by the journey so far. 

Thailand. Outward Bound

I've been back from vacation for some 11 weeks now.

I have so far resisted writing about what was a truly great holiday because I have enjoyed the memories of it more than could really be conveyed onto the page.

It is a sign of a good experience that you find yourself, when faced with a mundane everyday moment, daydreaming about the sights, sounds, smells and sensual overload that goes with a once in a lifetime trip to a tropical island in the Gulf of Thailand.

The choice of destination was that of the Australian representatives of my wife, Allisons' family, the descendants of the uncles and aunt who had upped and emigrated to the Oceania continent back in the post war era.

Being well travelled the selection of Ko Samui was equally well researched although our holiday companions had in the past visited and formed very fond memories of the place and those in an era well before the invasion and commercialisation that is an inevitable consequence of mass transit package tours.

The holiday, as well as a catch-up with family, was also to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary.

It was actually our first long stay vacation without our three children, now all in their 20's and with our eldest approaching 30 soon.  Let's get that point settled straight away shall we? Yes, she was a honeymoon conception as far as we can work out or would be prepared to admit.

We had, as a family unit, done a big three-weeker to the Southern Hemisphere about 10 years ago and in between a few shorter hauls to the Mediterranean but were not, compared to many, that well used to global travel. If you are as infrequent overseas tourists as we are the whole process of planning and preparation means very much starting again from scratch.

That meant everything from innoculations to checking if we needed a Visa, sourcing the appropriate clothing and checking up on what and what not to do so as not to offend the local population.

In all of these things there is so much information to hand. I don't really know how our forbears managed in days gone by or perhaps they just holidayed nearer to home.

By way of practice we did have a Thai meal at our local restaurant and I was given a very authoritative book on the Monarchy but was advised not to take it along with me as it was actually banned in the country being regarded as disrespectful and insulting.

My wife is good at directing me in political correctness and I was briefed and coached accordingly. This would ensure as much as possible that our stay would be in the resort and not in custody in another less amenable location.

I was excited about the prospect of a long journey although the series of flights required to reach Ko Samui and return home are, we have decided, likely to be our last such form of such transport given the seriousness of the climate crisis.

The fact that an airliner can stay in the air for over 11 hours continuous is in itself a wonder of science. This was the duration from Manchester Airport to Changi, Singapore followed by a veritable 2 hour hop into Thai air-space and on to the island.

As a sobering thought an announcement on the aircraft public address system was a stark reminder of the death penalty for drug offences within the borders of Thailand.

Arrival procedures on Ko Samui were carried out in a sharp, short downpour but the thatched roofs of the airport terminal and wicker walls (where there were actually any at all) were suitably resistant.

The first use of the Baht currency was to hire a taxi to take us to the resort, around 6 miles away at the northern end of the island. I don't know about you but whenever I am in a different time zone, climate and culture my sensory system goes into super mode and everything takes on a high definition appearance and with accentuated noises and odours.

Various guidebooks had made a point of emphasising the heat and humidity with warnings that our Northern European metabolism would struggle with these things. They were right although this was not at first noticeable under the fierce cooling power of the air conditioning in the vehicle.

The driveway to the resort was a festival of coloured streamers hung from the trees. The Reception Area was in a spacious open sided pagoda type structure and with a backdrop of the crystal blue waters of the Gulf.

After a few formalities including the presentation of a wrist garland to my wife we were taken in an electric golf buggy to our accommodation.

It was a low two storey building in colonial style set amongst more coconut palms and large frond species.

The short and final leg of our outbound journey was hot and sweaty but we were soon again in the artificial chill of a fabulous hotel suite.

Within a few moments we met up with Graham, Clemmie and Ellie.

Welcome to Thailand (to be continued)

The CD side of my life

In no particular order here is a bit of an inventory of CD's on the shelving in the room that I have the luxury to call my office. This dates back to 2014 and I am ashamed to say that I have not bought much of this format since. I have however bought more vinyl in support of Independent Record Shops and Record Fairs.

Paul Mounsey  Nahoo Too

Jackie Brown Soundtrack

Robbie Williams Greatest Hits

Jamiroquai Synkronized

Gene Olympian

Red Hot Chilli Peppers By The Way

Mumford and Sons Sigh no More

Robbie Williams I've been expecting you

Kort Invariable Heartache

Scarlet Naked

David Sylvian Brilliant Trees

Elvis The King

Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon

Madonna Greatest Hits Volume 2

James The Collection

Alkaline Trio Crimson

Al Green Love The Essential

Tame Impala Lonerism

Marc Bolan Essential Collection

Roberta Flack Best of

Rooney

Blancmange Best of

O Brother Where art thou? Soundtrack

Joe Bonamassa Live from the Royal Albert Hall

Stamatis Spanoudakis- Various in Greek

Neil Young Zuma

Embrace Out of Nothing

Creedence Clearwater Revival Recollection

Bernard Butler Move On

Cocteau Twins Victorialand

Cocteau Twins Stars and Topsoil

Jack Johnson In between Dreams

Athlete Vehicles and Animals

The Beautiful South Golddiggas

Bon Jovi Crush

Blue Oyster Cult Agents of Fortune

Embrace This new day

LSO Spartacus

Hawksley Workman The delicious wolves

REM Around the Sun

Dire Straits Dire Straits

Still Crazy Soundtrack

Doves Lost Souls

Dire Straits Brothers in Arms

Gary Moore Back on the Streets

Barbra Streisand Duets

Chilled Ibiza

The Psychedelic Furs all of this and nothing

The Seekers Collection

Budgie Best of

Ian Brown Remix of the Spheres

George Michael Best of

Hawksley Workman Treeful of Starling

Killers Sams Town

Santana Supernatural

REM Best of

Pink Floyd Animals

Ocean Colour Scene marchin'already

Grandaddy The Sophtware Slump

Grandaddy The broken down comforter collection

Aerosmith Nine Lives

Lighthouse Family I wish how I knew how it would feel to be free

Lighthouse Family Ocean Drive

Grandaddy Sumday

Ian Astbury Spirit Light Speed

Moby 18

Pink Floyd The Final Cut

Stereophonics Just enough Education to perform

Stereophonics You gotta go there to come back

Stereophonics Pull the Pin

Neil Young After the Gold Rush

Carole King and James Taylor Live at the Troubador

James Taylor Classic Songs

Bernard Butler Friends and Lovers

Elbow cast of thousands

The Housemartins London 0 Hull 4

Van Halen Van Halen

T Rex Best of

Elkie Brooks Best of

The Beautiful South Solid Bronze

Ladyhawke

Bon Iver For Emma, Forever Ago

Tous les Matins de Monde Soundtrack

Grover Washington Junior Winelight

Bay City Rollers Very best of 

Lynyrd Skynyrd The Essential

Nitin Sawhney Human

Billy Ocean Ultimate Collection

Amy Winehouse Back to Black

Scarlet Independent Love Song

Scarlet I really like the idea

Grand Drive True Love and High Adventure

The Stranglers 1977-1982

Hem Eveningland

Queen Absolute Greatest

Alison Moyet Alf

Ray Lamontagne Trouble

Jet Get Born

Scott Walker Scott 4

Texas White on Blonde

Spear of Destiny Best of

Elbow Asleep in the Back

John Elefante Corridors

Barclay James Harvest Berlin

ELO Best of

Lighthouse Family Postcards from Heaven

Elbow Leaders of the Free World

Neil Young Le Noise

Elbow The seldom seen kid

Pink Floyd The Division Bell

Thin Lizzy Greatest Hits

John Williams Film Music

Oasis Definitely Maybe

Barry White Greatest Hits

Miley Cyrus the time of our lives

Supergrass I should coco

Evanescence Fallen

Almost Famous Soundtrack

Fleetwood Mac Rumours

George Benson Greatest Hits

Take That Patience 

Embrace Fireworks

Seal Soul

City of God Soundtrack

Radiohead The Bends

Radiohead OK Computer

The Style Council Greatest Hits

Johnny Panic The Good Fight

Johnny Panic The Violent Dazzling

Stamatis Spanoudakis - yet more

Paul Weller Heavy Soul

Paul Weller Wild Wood

Paul Weller Stanley Road

The Jam All Mod Cons

Plug in and Work

Yesterday was an interesting first for me. 

I had managed to prise away the electric car from my wife for a whole working day. 

I have driven it frequently since we took delivery of it in the summer, mostly around town and taking turns on longer journeys around Yorkshire. Those have been premeditated jaunts with careful planning of potential charging points and a few instances of the new phenomena known as "range anxiety". 

This is where your eye keeps straying to the power level meter on the dashboard which invokes the mental process of calculating if there is enough in the batteries to, in the first instance get you to where you want to go and then get you back home again. 

There are so many influencing factors at play with electric propulsion. 

The colder mornings of the winter certainly suppress the normal range for a 100% capacity, as much as 20 miles when the thermometer is below freezing. Add to that the diversion of power to demisting the windscreen and giving a bit of warming comfort to the occupants of the vehicle and there is a further drain on energy levels. 

In spite of these inherent factors of EV's the actual driving experience remains outstanding. 

There is a seamlessly smooth and of course almost silent gracefulness in movement. The immediate pick up and torque from start off is startling and even more so when not accompanied by a roaring, throaty exhaust tone that may petrol heads regard as the defining characteristic of a carbon fuelled engine. 

The maxim of "power is nothing without control" is, I know, originally from a political and monarchical context but it applies exactly to kilowatts through to the driving wheels in an electric car. 

Taking the car to do my work would be a bit of a test. 

I regularly cover up to 200 miles a day and so with an official range of 168 miles I would have to schedule in a charging session somewhere. 

Yesterday was more manageable with jobs in York and Hull with an estimated 100 miles travelling between them. I did eventually get home with 25% battery power remaining which alleviated most of the range anxiety feelings. 

In practical terms the car was ideal for my working demands. 

The driving position is comfortable and adjustable for when my posture goes through that slouching slump and needs a bit of perking up. Visibility is good all round which is not always the case with a hatchback model but essential when in town and city traffic when other vehicles, pedestrians and cyclists are all competing for the same bit of tarmac. The bootspace is adequate for my equipment which is again a positive. 

It was well into the first 30 miles that I realised that I had not bothered to put the radio on. In a noisy diesel that bit of background interference is important but somehow I just had to preserve and enjoy the sounds of the wind and the road which just otherwise do not get noticed. 

The Nissan Leaf has a new shape from its predecessor of some nine years but just looks like a normal car and goes unnoticed apart from with those who have considered it as their next mode of transport. 

In spite of it being the best selling EV (globally) of the last decade it remains a rarity on UK roads and I saw only one other, a Mark 1 version during the whole day. 

Parking on the street or in estate courtyards is a simple operation aided by audible warnings and a big screen reversing camera and negotiating the urban obstructions of potholes, road maintenance vehicles, bollards and street furniture was similarly effortless. 

It was a good test and it has sown the idea in my mind of perhaps changing to an EV when my current car lease is up for renewal during 2020. The key factor is getting a decent range but that attribute seems to be top of the list of manufacturers and prospective buyers. 

At the end of the day I did feel more alert and refreshed than I usually do after a long day behind the wheel. 

On the downside, having spent all of that time in a sort of monastic quietness I have come to realise that I might have tinnitus. 

Return to the Whitby Smoke House

Regulars will recognise this piece from 2017 but I have published it again having just come back from a short winter break in the magical atmosphere of Whitby, North Yorkshire. Ironically I have also just spent today working in the town with just 24 hours in between visits. Of course no trip to this historic setting is without a purchase of freshly oak smoked kippers from Fortunes Smoke House. As I write the wonderfully aromatic and tasty treat is repeating on my palette. Lovely. It may be an old blog but the photos are from this weekend.

I might not ever say those same words in the same order ever again. 

It is a quite unique combination of words perhaps muttered by mere mortals on a very rare occasion. 

They were the most apt and explanatory words for what I had to do but nevertheless caused quite a stir amongst my co-workers upon announcing them as the reason for leaving the office this morning. 

“I have to go and deliver some Kippers”. 

I was not being euphemistic, ambiguous or double-entendering  (not sure if that is a real word).

My late Father had his own phrase about “going to see a man about a dog” which gradually sank in amongst the rest of the family as meaning that he had to leave and do some errand but with no predetermined timescale. 

I had no intention of developing my own euphemism but “I have to go and deliver some kippers” is as good as any and could cover all manner of trips, jaunts and absences from the office or home. 

In fact I was trying to help out my wife’s Australian cousin, who with his wife is on a visit to the UK after some seven or so years of last being here. 

On his wish list for the 3 week vacation was the purchase of some Kippers- surely everyone knows what these are- wood smoke cured herring. 

There is a good choice of these on any ice packed fish counter at a supermarket and even in the ordinary seafood display down the delicatessen aisle. It is even possible to buy a rather bland and unappetising boil in the bag version. 

However, the best ever kippers are from a specific source in a magical place. 

I am talking about Fortunes in the North Yorkshire coast town of Whitby.

Whitby Abbey on the skyline

I had not actually heard of them before but as far away as Australia they were held with some reverence. They regularly featured on those regional food programmes on TV channels where celebrity chefs or just plain celebrities go in search of good, authentic, honest and artisan products. You know the sort of broadcasts where the presenter wears a safari suit, fancy hat and drives around in a classic motor vehicle decrying the globalisation and anonymity of food production. 

There has been a huge emphasis in the media on provenance of food especially after the controversy and public outcry about horse flesh in lasagne and the re-emergence in the food supply chain of previously condemned and supposedly confiscated meat, fruit and vegetables. 

You cannot get any more authentic and pure than a Fortunes Kipper- no, not a slick marketing slogan from a top-notch advertising agency but my own endorsement having been to the Whitby headquarters just yesterday. 

The use of the term HQ is as far from reality as you can get. 

Fortunes premises comprise of a shack of a shop about 5 metres by 3 metres and leaning against the back of it the smokehouse, another shack. 

We could smell the wonderful aroma of the curing smoke from the bottom of the steep 199 steps that snake up the cliffside from Whitby Town to the ruins of the Abbey. The odour reminds me always of the open log and coal fires of rented cottages during a winter weekend or early springbreak along that part of the Yorkshire coastline, Robin Hoods Bay and Staithes in particular which are not far off equidistant from Whitby to the south and north respectively.

Captain Cooks Endeavour

Yesterday was a beautiful late September one after some very mixed and unpredictable weather over the preceding summer months. The town, for a Tuesday and out of season was as busy as ever with the main pedestrian flow being along the narrow harbourside streets and up the ladder-like steps. 

Whitby Rooftop View

We veered off from the pack following with our noses the smoky air, just visible as a light cloud between the parallel terraced houses of Henrietta Street perched high above the convergence of the River Esk and the North Sea. 

We could not yet see the source of the enticing sight and smell but were pretty close as successive cottages were named along a Kipper theme amongst the usual tributes to Captain Cook and nautical terms. 

A rather weatherbeaten sign on the side of a low single storey building could just be seen bearing the Fortunes name and pedigree of time served Kipper smoking. 

A hand written piece of paper in the squat window said that they were not open until 1.30pm that day, a tantalising 40 minutes ahead. We were not alone on that street. A few touristy types like ourselves were simply hanging around in anticipation of the start of business.

A white smoke, a sort of Papal vote hue, was wisping around the top of a hefty door on the outbuilding and was fine enough to squeeze its way seemingly through the roof and every knot hole, nook and cranny of the timber and brick walls. 

Time dragged by even with the purchase of an ice cream and a welcome sit down on a precariously angled timber bench in a warm sunny spot just around the corner. 

At last we retraced our steps along the well worn cobbles where you are never far away from the spirits and lost souls of the historic fishing and whaling community from centuries past. 

As a treat the doors to the smoke house were wide open having been emptied of the tarry racks of aromatic Kippers which now stood on a counter in the shack shop. The floor of the smoke house was strewn with part combusted woodchips and its walls caked in a treacle-like residue from over 140 years of production. 

We were first in a slowly forming queue, a bit like kiddies in a sweet shop and for £3.95 we could have a pair of mellow toned, fine boned Kippers of our very own.

Typical Whitby alleyway

Six pairs were bought from a recited list of family members to whom had been promised a proper Kipper over the previous few days by our Australian guests.

I would be roped into the delivery service in due course.

Wrapped up by, I presume by the Mr Fortune, we whisked them away back down the narrow street and held them close as though freshly found treasure.

The Harbour Entrance - Whitby