Ugly Duckling or Golden Goose?

Saw one of them parked up down a street near my old house.

I had to drive around the full extent of the one-way system in order to make another pass to confirm what I had just seen.

At that time in the evening reverse rush-hour no-one, just no-one even attempts to re-enter the gyratory traffic system without a legitimate reason such as forgetting to lock up the house, put the baby seat and contents from their resting place on the front lawn into the back seat of the car or thinking that the gas hob has been left on.

I had heard about the folly of a baby Aston Martin car.

Clarkson and Co were very amused but ultimately dismissive of the vehicle as though it were a complete betrayal of that great marque.

It is a compact city car based on the Toyota IQ but re-badged and sumptuously upholstered in leather hides, aluminium brushed gadget surrounds, hi tech gear shift knob and real wood trim behind the classic radiator grille modelled on the normal stable of thoroughbred supercars.

The Japanese originated model can be purchased for £12,500 on the road but with the upscaling in style, pedigree and that name the Cygnet as it is called comes in at a staring price of £30,000, yes, staring in open mouthed fashion as well as starting.

The kerb rested example down the road was in bright electric blue and with just a peak of what seemed to be the most impractical plush white interior to seats and trim. The side-on view is that of a Toyota but the Aston bonnet badge, or its fixing onto a rather snub nosed front, suggests that something special may be lurking in the engine compartment.

Apparently there is not.

Those paying such big money for a small car would be ultimately very disappointed by a top speed of 106mph although possibly downhill and in a favourable tail wind given the 97 BHP output of the 1.33 litre petrol engine.

It is not as if the toytown car has any beauty, passion, road presence or appeal because it is just very, very ordinary.

On its launch the manufacturer already had 400 orders and was fully confident of selling 1500 cars a year.

The model has now been terminated from the company brochure in what has been announced as a strategic decision but with barely 150 actual sales from the production run the whole exercise appears to have been just one huge miscalculation of client loyalty and the gullibility of the wider wannabe population.

The cynical view was that in bringing out a low CO2 emission vehicle the average output across the Aston Martin catalogue of environmentally unfriendly beasts would be dramatically reduced. Fearful of stringent sanctions on polluting characteristics of V12's and V8's this was actually a clever ruse to meet EU targets without the need to dramatically damage the reputation of speed and pulling power.

Ironically ,Aston Martin may have actually created a classic car of the future in terms of its great rarity although a first casual browse through the nearly new pages of a dealership shows second hand prices at a much depreciated £19,000. Might be a good and sound speculative investment even at that price. It is so small that you could park it in your understairs cupboard or shove it up into the loft to appreciate into that future pension windfall or special bequest to dependants. Unfortunately there is strong current competition with possibly the massive over-order of unused radiators grilles for the Cygnet now being stuck on the front of the new shape and ever present Ford Fiesta.

Definitely Maybe

At the time I did not think that 'Maybe' was a very good name for a ship.

A piece of equipment to be relied upon in life threatening situations upon towering waves and seemingly bottomless troughs with the violent turbulence in between should have a stronger name, for sure.  'Maybe' would have suited a rowing boat or a dinghy.  It is a name which inspires a bit of optimism in a lotta laughs sort of way, and would certainly be a sentiment called upon if such a small craft drifted into the bow shadow of a large aircraft carrier,bulk carrier or globe trotting multi storey cruise ship. 'Maybe' just does not give a feeling of invincibilty and confidence on the open seas or even the local boating lake.

The story behind the name is however interesting.

Commissioned by a wealthy Dutchman in 1933 the boat was designed to fulfill the dreams and aspirations of that individual and his family for travelling and adventure. During the war years it was hidden in a muddy backwater as it would have been quite a prize for some self important invader and no doubt commandered, requisitioned or just plain stolen away to some private wharf in the Fatherland. Post war it began to take part in the Tall Ships Races, a glamourous and evocative sounding lifestyle, the playground of the rich and famous. The image of crystal clear waters, powder blue skies and warm sunshine could not be more distant than the lock basin of Hull Marina on a murky wednesday afternoon in October through which 'Maybe' was being carefully teased.

I was a bit of a captive audience in that the inner lock gate was already open and my passage across on foot was postponed. The outer gate was in the early stages of mechanical activation to drain out the basin and allow the ship out into the also murky River Humber. I was effectively trapped for a few moments.

I feared the worst, in a sort of morbid and fascinated way,  for the coming together of ship superstructure and the inanimate thing that is the landmass of West Hull as the long vessel swung into the basin from the busy Marina. One of the crew in the bows gave the universal symbol of a very close thing but no drama with a thumbs up although his colleague some sixty feet back at the wheel will have been unsighted and oblivious to how close he had been to an embarassing scrape and crunch. Either that or he was supremely skilled and proficient in tight quarter navigational techniques.

Now that the grand ship was directly in front of me as it awaited the seeping away of the waters I could see that the deck was littered with bodies. In between Ocean Racing and Corporate jollies the main role of the Dutchman's dream was as a sail training school.

The compliment on board looked to be a timid and apprehensive group of teenagers. This brings me back to the lack of inspiration and confidence in 'Maybe' and I imagine that their doting parents, signing off their offspring in loco parentis for a few days would be equally anxious. The shipping forecast would for the duration be avidly followed in kitchens and living rooms of those left at home.

So early in the voyage, about twenty minutes,  it was a case of the only communication being 'do not touch anything', and relations between crew and pupils were distant and strange. The youngsters were huddled low on the plank deck, well kitted out in all weather gear and life jackets but nevertheless visibly shivering from cold and fear.

Within a few hours of leaving behind the familiar waterfront of Hull there would be the start of a very strong bond and trust between all those on board. The mooring ropes were loosely tied to the basin wall as the ship began to drop slowly and uniformly to the level of the wild river beyond the substantial timber outer gate. By now there was quite a large gathering on the quayside but mainly comprised of impatient types wanting to cross rather than having a passing or fleeting interest in how to get a Tall Ship through a narrow lock.

I would be home and warm in about half an hour whilst ship, crew and trainees would just be edging out towards Spurn Point and where the choppy waters of the Humber would look positively millpond-like in comparison to the ragings and swell of the North Sea.That would of course depend on whether the mist and drizzle lifted enough for them to appreciate their surroundings.

I did, I admit, feel a small twinge of envy about their adventure that lay ahead up the Yorkshire Coast towards Whitby and beyond.

 Life on board a sailing ship of classical proportions promised much in the way of self discovery and motivation and those going out as hapless youths would return as fully rounded and confident citizens with a fresh and exciting new aspect on how they would conduct their own lives and futures on a positive course ................................................maybe.

Ah, yes, it is all very clear now. Clever.

(reproduced from exactly 12 months ago. Reason. Been out to a fish restaurant just down the road from the new house)

Insurrection, Misdirection and Cats Whiskers

We may think and indeed firmly believe that we are sophisticated, savvy and streetwise and not at all susceptible to being scammed, conned or just plain ripped off.

It is a bit of a false sense of security brought about by our ability to instantly access news, information and events.

If something is reported and broadcast, for example, we tend to accept it as the truth. A viral message dissipated through the social networks can be seen by multitudes and then spread exponentially through friends and contacts.

It may have taken many years in the snail mail days for an urban myth to become established but not today. Andy Warhol in 1968 coined the phrase that in the future everyone will be world famous for fifteen minutes. In the UK the equivalent sentiment is usually expressed as a "nine day wonder". In the same way under the great host of media at our fingertips some bit of intial gossip, hearsay, speculation or just downright fabrication can immediately attain the status of a legend in a matter of a few key strokes.

Imagine back to the era when the transmission of a message involved a foot or mounted messenger, smoke signals, semaphore flags, a carrier pigeon, telegraphic communication, telephone and even up until the modern fax machine. These in themselves and in their halcyon periods quite progressive means of relaying information pale into a dusty museum exhibit when set up against what we now have at our disposal in a handset, tablet or laptop.

It is not too long ago that the population, wanting some idea of what was going on in the wider world, would flock to a picture house to see the newsreels and even then the images and stories would already be quite out of date.

The emergence of broadcast radio must have seemed like a marvel of science being available for the benefit of the masses but equally and in the wrong hands a tool of propaganda, misinformation and for the spreading of fear and insecurity.

Take the 1938 airing by Orson Welles of The War of The Worlds. It has gone down in the history of broadcasting as perhaps the most legendary piece of drama in that it was believed to be a true account of an actual Martian invasion of the United States.

It was a first in many respects but also in a society with underlying and strong concerns and suspicions about modern life.

The original broadcast is 75 years old this coming Halloween, the 30th October.

In the same vein as a barely credible announcement every April 1st there will be of course many who would say that they would never be fooled by such an obvious and spooky stunt on All Hallows Eve.

However, the listening public were off guard on that particualr night and the matter of fact and unemotional voice of the master of a dramatic moment only served to make them unwilling and terrified witnesses and participants.

Even now in the century following ,the conspiracy theorists are very much active about the whole event.

One internet based organisation is of the idea that an actual alien invasion was attempted on that very night and in the small town of Grover's Mill in which the first part of the story was based and that the whole Welles thing was a smokescreen for a pitch battle between the townsfolk and the little green men which resulted in a strategic retreat by the inhabitants of the Red Planet.

The production by The Mercury Theatre, Welles' own repertory company was skillfully structured between supposed live on the ground first hand accounts of lights, the impact of what was thought to be a meteorite and explosions interspersed with a big band sound from a fictitious New York hotel.

In its ordinariness it was utterly believable.

The story is that a group of concerned academics from the geology department of Princeton University immediately set off for Grovers Mill upon hearing the news. They returned empty handed but without the access to an inter war forerunner of Facebook or Twitter they were not able to report what seemed to be a hoax.

The Police records of the night do include numerous panicky phone calls with the offering of information by the public on the number and location of falling meteors, apparent dead bodies in the streets, gas attacks, fires and military activity. The residents of New Jersey genuinely believed that they were on the front line of the alien insurrection.

In the inevitable assessment of the series of events it was estimated that the nationwide broadcast was heard by 6 million people and over a million had been affected by anxiety and alarm.

Actual accounts of the night include attempted evacuations by whole families in their motor cars, the gung ho attitude of armed groups ready to defend their homes and people in the streets anxiously watching the skies.

The power of a message delivered by radio was more than ably demonstrated by Welles and his actors.

Ripples of panic spread further as listeners, channel hopping between stations seeking their evening amusement , tuned into the dramatic account of Martian machines and death rays striding across the Hudson River.

Disclaimers had been given before the broadcast about realistic content but these had not obviously been taken on board. Proclamations of the end of the world were made in bars and churches.

In 1938 there was already cause for concern over conflict and upheaval what with the unrest in Europe and the seemingly unchecked rise of fascism. The measured tones of the voices reporting the pitch battle between Man and Invaders were what the public had become accustomed to huddled around their wireless sets in the comfort of their own homes.

The Halloween fright night was a masterful display by Orson Welles although he did appear to the press the following day as apologetic and embarrassed by his new found infamy. As for Grover's Mill, nothing much happened to capitalise on the brief moment of being the epicentre of the night apart from the occasional pub quiz question on the subject.

Could the same hype and horror be manufactured through todays far reaching and influential media of information and communication or just cynically used to cause mayhem and meltdown of our increasingly fragile and fragmented social, economic and religious existence?

How to avoid problems in your back passage.

Just getting to know the new area a bit more.

Moved here nearly 6 weeks ago now.

After 18 years at the last house and the previous 4 years in that same suburb it is, to say the least ,an interesting experience.

There is a certain etiquette amongst our immediate neighbours in relation to tuesday bin collection day.

I thought that we had wheelie bin pixies as, on alternate weeks of our fledgling occupation, all of our waste receptacles gravitated to the back of the service road before 7am, full to the brim with our refuse, and then magically returned completely empty to their designated place behind our gates by the time I got back from work.

This had never happened in our former suburban retreat, in fact the bin would have to be blocking the pavement, have trapped a pensioner inside or caused a collision with the passing number 66 Bus to even attract any consideration of being moved.

I did have a few snarly glances from drivers/riders of mobility scooters who were quite prepared to just ram the bin rather than ease it to one side.

The practicalities of using the back road at the new place has caused me some concern.

About 15 years ago and at the far opposite end of the road I had been the Consultant in a prolonged and very protracted dispute between neighbouring owners over just the very same roadway arrangement.

Most conflict issues of this type ,which in themselves can over trivial matters ,are fuelled by a personality clash and my client and the other party could have been no farther polarised in background, outlook, temperament and behaviour.

The road is a common right of way along the rear of 20 properties and it bisects the immediate back gardens and a further sliver of land beyond. We have railings and gates having one of the better clearances but other properties have barely a car length from the back wall of the house. The only physical demarcation is in a continuous pin kerb, flush to the tarmac surface, having the appearance of the white tramlines around a sports pitch.

It is important for there to be reasonable use in terms of moving a vehicle, in the parking up of visitor cars or in receiving commercial van or truck deliveries.

For example, in order to enter my driveway I have to pass along and over my neighbours land. In leaving the same I have to reverse out over and back in before being able to progress in a forward gear. All of this two and three point turning has to be conducted within the boundary of the pin kerb.

This is a legitimate right for my neighbours to store touring caravans, camper vans, people carriers, yet more bins and the odd bit of household detritus or building materials on what is their territory even if it is up to the pin kerb position and impedes ease of access.

I think so far that we are on the equivalent of a yellow card on our committing of joint first offences in not assuming our logical turn on putting out the wheelies and also in not being strong enough to ask the sofa delivery lorry to leave some room to let others pass.

Nothing has been said directly by our new neighbours but we know that we will certainly have to try much harder after an evidently short honeymoon as we call it, or probation as they might well.

Being the new kids on the block will be difficult but it is also somehow quite exciting and rejuvenating for us being of a certain age. Inner City Living, eh.

Eat up the miles

It was only intended to be a short bike ride to the end of the road and back.

It would, over that short distance, be sufficient to get used to the riding position, gear shifting, braking and steering of my new off roader. 

Of course, it is essential to be wearing the correct gear even for a test ride and so I was attired in lycra knee length shorts emblazoned withe the logo of the local bike shop, a gawdily coloured trade team jersey and hard shell racing helmet.

In the somewhat distorted reflection of the hatchback of the family car I had the physique and demeanour of when I was in my twenties and actually competing in road races. I left it at that, satisfied in the image that I portrayed but kept it in mind not to glance sideways in any plate glass shop windows whose reflective image never lies and indeed can add a few extra pounds to add insult to obesity.

Fully intending to just ride up and down a bit I did not bother with my usual backpack full of spare inner tubes, puncture repair kits, assorted Allen keys, chain link tool, rainy day cape and full car foot pump. After a few passes of the front door that feeling of well being and alertness overwhelmed my better judgement and I found myself, in warmish mid October sunlight , heading out of the inner city along one of my favourite and well used trails. It was the course of the old railway line which wound its way along the back fences of the terraced houses, crossing a few of the main arterial roads, deep land drain cuttings and then through the weekend deserted industrial estate towards the modern residential estates on the very edges of the suburban sprawl.

I had supreme confidence in the mechanical condition of the brand new bike. It had a good pedigree, and the knobbly tyres just zipped along with minimum contact on the red tarmac of the track, or at least where the old rail track used to be.

After the congestion of the route as a consequence of the upsurge of interest in cycling in the summer months it was nice to have the way to myself save for the occasional dad with infant in buggy, dog walkers and youths clutching their beer cans, still shirtless even with the oncoming autumnal chill. Parts of the track were slippery with fallen leaves and the gypsy horses tethered on the verge had left a few prominent piles of dung which presented a challenge to avoid. There was the usual scattering of broken glass at the cut throughs from the housing estate, mattresses discarded in the hedgerows and a few electrical appliances protruding from the deeper vegetation. These things just added more colour to the glorious afternoon which had been unexpected after a few days of damp, misty weather.

I was flying along, further and further away in distance and intention from my original plan.

I reached the extent of the built up areas. The track carried on between the freshly ploughed fields. Its eventual terminus to the north east was a small seaside town and as a destination for a ride in season it was excellent with promenade tea shops and a broad outlook onto the sometimes azure haze of the North Sea.

However, anything not needed by the actual residents shut down at the end of September and there were scarce pickings to be had. I decided to just carry on to the first hamlet and then turn back which would give me enough time to devise an alternative route back to base. The ride went smoothly and I felt in very good form, surprisingly so after a bit of a lay-off from cycling and indeed any meaningful and beneficial exercise.

Passing back into civilisation I swung north on the public road to pick up another old railway course which ran back into the old part of the city. I estimated that my original 100 metre and back ride had now attained the ten mile distance mark.

It was at that moment at the gateway to a secondary school that my back tyre completly deflated down to the scrunching sound of the rim on concrete.

I was, as was typical, at the farthest point away from the house. I instinctively reached around for the backpack, the constant companion for the summer rides out before realising the folly and error of my impulse and downright stupidity.

I stopped riding as that would complicate the problem and resigned myself to progressing on foot.

In the far distance was the tall, slim and somewhat wonky smokestack which was exactly one mile from my house. Unfortunately I was about two miles away from the landmark itself. Walking along in full gear pushing a lame bike utilises a completely different set of muscles and I was now, of course directly carrying my own body weight rather than through the spring and elasticity of a frame, handlebars and chunky tyres. The shin splints were at first excruciating and then, surprisingly, got progressively worse. I strode out, stretched and lunged, skipped a bit, danced a jig and broke into a half jog to try to ease the pain. It didn't help.

Resting as much of my upper body on the stricken bike did give some relief but gave the impression that I was drunk in charge. Small children shouted to enquire what I had done as they stopped whatever they were up to between the houses. A few cars honked their horns, their occupants no doubt giggling at the old jokes of "get off and milk it" or "your back wheel's going round, mate" and other classics.

The three miles on foot dragged by.

I did discover a couple of shortcuts that I would have hesitated to use on two wheels and they must have shaved some tens of metres off my trek. I was by now beyond the large chimney and could spy the copper tinted dome of my local swimming baths, or old slipper baths as they used to be called.

I was in part elated mood, brought on more by lack of energy than being in sight of home.

It was time to rehearse the story I would recount to the family to explain my absence of two hours rather than the intended couple of minutes. I had cycled and almost got to running pace on foot so that would represent two out of the three disciplines in a very compact but Ironman style competition. Just seeing the top of the Municipal Baths was not sufficient to qualify for the swimming element to be met. I then remembered that my son had ,for that Sunday tea, prepared his famous dish of savoury mince with onions, garlic, carrots and peas under a thick buttered layer of mashed potato. It would just need warming up in the dish in the oven.

I decided to add it to my sporting endeavours for that afternoon as the third event in what I could legitimately refer to as a Shepherds Pie-athlon.

Roll out the Barrel

A barrel of oil.

It is one of those much mentioned forms of unit measurement.

It features on the nightly news broadcasts whenever there is a crisis looming in the countries from where it is produced, or if a giant supertanker has become wedged on a reef and its contents are seeping out into the ocean.

It is a form of threat to dependent users with either over-supply or a choking off in the number of barrels in circulation.

It is a term very much in the public perception but just ask anyone to quantify it in common terms and misinformation, misinterpretation and mystery kick in to splendid extremes.

If it is any help in terms of visualisation, a barrel of oil is 42 gallons in the US measurement.

A volume of 42 gallons is still difficult to appreciate even if equated in terms of how much petrol, diesel oil or other petroleum based products it yields. Currently this is 19 gallons of petrol or 10 gallons of diesel with other by products as well. The refineries switch between the fuels dependent on demand and profitability. I can recall the days when diesel engined cars were rare and clunky with the high lead content petrol being dominant. Gradually the motorist was weaned off petrol with the enticement of cheaper diesel and more miles per gallon until firmly converted with, surprise, surprise a subsequent hike up in diesel fuel at the pumps.

One of the best illustrative guides to the quantity of a barrel of oil that I have come across relates to its equivalent power production.

For example, one barrel of oil provides a power output of 1.7 MegaWatt hours or reduced to laymans language it is the electricity used in 330 homes in the course of one hour.

The same power output by a human being on a bicycle pedalling at moderate speed would permit a distance of 33491 miles to be covered or one and a third laps around the equator.

On foot or in a gentle jogging mode the equivalent distance from Reykyavik to the South Pole and the long way around passing the North Pole would be acheivable or 14353 miles.

If tired of self propulsion then a popular form of transport, a motor scooter, on the same power trip would take you from New York to the tip of South Africa assuming a continuous land mass existed being a distance of 7891 miles.

In wanting a less sedantry form of two wheel motion or at least to have enough oomph to overtake something then on a 800cc motorbike a flit from London to Tehran would be a nice epic journey of 2702 miles.

Endurance swimmers are a bit of a breed apart and greased up and with someone looking out for person eating sharks, jellyfish, residues of an oil spill or a sewage plume a brave soul could expect to reach Dublin from New York (3168 miles).

Those wanting a four wheel road trip could use a large 3 litre diesel engined SUV to go from Rome to Copenhagen or in yer mams' citycar the range could be extended to drive the equivalent of that ultimate dream gap year experience across the US from Washington DC to Los Angeles.

The pattern as you can see if for an incremental increase in comfort of mode of transport and power output of the means of movement.

Take a tipper truck or fully loaded articulated lorry with you and you may only need one Yorkie Bar for the duration of London to Paris or Paris to Berne (in Switzerland).

Moving on to serious transport.

Imagine if you won a barrel of oil in a competition and could donate it towards a long haul flight to a destination of your choice. Well, by the time you had fastened your seat belt, put your tray in the upright position and mused the duty free card your 34 seconds of gifted travelling would be over. In air miles terms a paltry just over 5 miles covered.

That is not so bad when compared to a loaded container ship which if sponsored by you to the tune of a barrel of oil would travel only 3000 feet or roughly for modern vessels about three times its own bow to stern length.

A barrel of oil. Clearly, or not, a barrel of laughs.

The Hills are Alive

The land is flat and not a little bit boring as you travel west and south westwards from East Yorkshire.

The slope of the Wolds is just glimpsed over your right shoulder when the A63 opens up into the wide three lane M62 motorway and there before you is just the vast openness of the lower part of the Vale of York , the flood plain down to the Humber/Trent/Ouse/Derwent corridor and beyond to the Thorne wastes.

There is no high ground for about 50 or more miles in each direction.

That is apart from a scattering of elongated hillocks, regularly shaped in the same effect as smoothing a meringue mix from a spoon onto a baking tray.

These landscape features appear to change every time I pass by on the ocassional shopping trip to Ikea at Leeds or into Sheffield with subtle changes in the alignment to the horizon and the gentle sloping rises from normal ground level.

Sad as I am I have not found any defined names or even local colloquialisms for these topographical mounds.

This is because they are entirely fashioned and formed by man from the waste and debris excavated in the coal mining process that was the predominant industry in the surrounding areas for much of the last 150 years.

On the fringes of the Selby Coalfield is a particularly large and grassy hill which looms up out of the usual low mist on a working day in any season of the year. It forms an important marker on our trips to West Yorkshire as it is the half way point of the journey. The motorway crosses, first, a canal with the array of brightly painted narrow boats and inland waterway pleasure craft and then the loose dressed site of what must be one of the biggest car boot sale venues in the region although these must fall on a sunday because we have never witnessed the mad scrap and brawl in full flow which accompanies such an event...well at least the ones we frequent.

The hill is now well established with grassland and vegetation but I do remember it's early incarnation as just a muddy pile about 30 to 40 years ago when we would travel past on the way to and from family vacations. At that time there was plenty of interest for a lad of my age in the ant-like movements of oversized tipper lorries, diggers, excavators and grading machines as they crawled over the fledgling mountain. It was a lifesize Tonka Toy experience and holding up a finger and thumb through the side window of the family VW Estate it felt like you were in control of the distant vehicles.

Of course, I was not bothered or indeed interested in how the waste rocks and soil had got there even though far beneath our very car there would be hundreds of coal miners working a shift and producing a seemingly endless supply of it.

There is now very little in the way of physical structures or infrastructure to even hint at the former dominance of the coal industry in West and South Yorkshire.

A common sight was of the headgear and winding houses above the mineshafts but these have now been demolished in spite of what are thought to be large reserves of coal still in situ. A bit of a giveaway for what was once a colliery community is a row or bank of rows of terraced houses left stranded in the middle of nowhere apart from a large hill of spoil. There is one such rural aspect terrace visible to the east of the M18 close to what I remember seeing as the structures of the Moor End Colliery.

Also victim to the demise of the industry and mines that we often passed on our travels (before the motorway network of today) included Rossington Main and Thurcroft to the south of Doncaster. Close to the M1 the former Markham Vale Colliery retains its spoil heaps but has undergone a transformation after the pit closure in 1994 as an Enterprise Area. Slowly the hills are being whittled away to create valuable commercial land.

The carriageways that make up the convergence of the main regional motorways between Leeds and Doncaster are frequently coned off for repairs as a consequence of mining related subsidence but this is merely regarded as an inconvenience rather than arousing a feeling of loss in the demise of a once proud industry and the large communities that relied upon it for their livelihoods.

Recent dramatic landslips from the man made hills onto main rail routes and roads, thankfully without any loss of life, have been another reminder of the origins of the raw materials and their potential instability.

Many of the spoil heaps still survive. I would like to see them assume the names of their donor coal mines in the future so that the rich heritage of that industry, which contributed so much to the powering of the nation through its industrial heyday , remains in living memory even after the last Collier has gone.