Dear Auntie Maud,
I have just heard that you are having second thoughts about your purchase of a Stairway to Heaven
First of all I must say how pleased I was to hear that your utter conviction that your jewellery was valuable was in fact confirmed by one of the many 'Cash for Gold' companies and that its sale permitted you to pursue your dream of purchasing the above item. Very different from your younger days, many businesses do now operate flexible opening hours but it is refreshing to hear that you were still able to verbally persuade the purveyors of the product to allow you to complete your order.
You were sensible in confirming that you were at the right shopping outlet because it is often possible to be confused by a similarly named retailer who is not able to provide a compatible item. I know the place you speak of personally, just down by the small stream and close to 'The Tree' public house where they often have an Eva Cassidy impersonator. I'm not entirely convinced that she is actually any good. I really like taking on the persona of Stevland Hardaway Morris if that is the case.
Like you, I am a bit nostalgic when there is a beautiful sunset and get very sad deep down if I cannot stay around to enjoy it. In such circumstances I often remember, as you might, when someone set fire to the wooded copse in the local park and all the fuss that it created amongst the large crowd that gathered to see what was going to happen. Once again I think about doing an impression of Stevland Hardaway Morris.
On a lighter note, if we all behave ourselves there is a rumour that an authentic Caledonian musician may give us something to ponder on. I have a date for your diary for one morning this week but it will be very early. If you find yourself bereft of anything to sit on head up to the woods as there is a bit of an entertainment planned which is expected to be quite amusing.
As you are very much security minded you might want to thin out your Privet to prevent anyone leaping out and startling you. It does make for good housekeeping anyway and will safeguard your favourite album of guitar tunes by that guy you like who played with Freddie Mercury. As always you do have free will and choice and it is your prerogative to change your mind at any time. If it happens to me I just pretend that I am, once again, Stevland Hardaway Morris.
It must be my age but I do often get a headache from the raucous sounds of Scottish music, I am sorry to say, and flatulence can be an unfortunate side effect from the medication. A 'silent but deadly' it may be but do not let that deter you from going ahead with your desired purchase even if the weather gets bad.
To conclude your purchase you will no doubt be leaving in your usual sensible shoes, just around dusk, and may come across that old friend of yours on the way, sensibly as always carrying a torch and giving directions with a bright but mellowy coloured beam. I do know her, she is very softly spoken and does tend to go on in a sing-song voice about how much she enjoys the literature of Alexandre Dumas set in 17th century France and involving the adventures of that trio of the kings swordsmen. Just be strong and do not be a pushover.
I know you will enjoy your Stairway to Heaven.
Your Nephew, James Page.
p.s. Thanks for the Rubber Plant as well.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
Saturday, 10 March 2012
Runaway Bribe
I had made the decision to run away from home. At the age of 7 it is a difficult decision to make. There are many issues to consider. Towards the far end of the list was where to go, where to live, what to do for money, how to get a job. At the forefront of the list was who would put out my clothes, get me breakfast, tie my shoelaces and wash my face. The practicalites of running away escaped me because I was in a very, very bad mood and I was determined to punish my parents for not letting me get my own way.
It all happened on a bright and warm summers evening but still during school term. Any schooling beyond, say June, I considered to be a waste of time. The weather was too good to be confined to a classroom and anyway, with the long holidays approaching everything was winding down and with no urgency or commitment. I would rush home at the end of school, or rather walk across the playing field and through the gate in the back fence of our house. There was that advantage of living next to the school, just that one. My Mother would have a drink and biscuit ready. A tall, narrow faded red plastic tupperware beaker close to full with orange squash and a digestive. Delicious.
Then out to play. We lived in a cul de sac, on a gentle slope and with a nice wide pavement which swept the corners and curves formed around the grassy verges and the driveways to the neighbouring houses. At exactly 4pm in any good weather, be it the depths of winter or high summer it was as though the Pied Piper had struck up a tune. Out of the houses there poured and tumbled children, toddlers with older brothers and sisters, independent under 5's, boys of ages 6 to 8 dressed as cowboys or spacemen, girls of the same age range as ballerinas or nurses. Political correctness and equal opportunitues had not yet been invented. Of course if it were a friday then Westgarth Gardens would be again deserted at 5 minutes to 5pm as it was time for Crackerjack on the TV.
After some time coursing and rampaging about it would be time for tea. Fish fingers, chips and peas were a favourite with lashings of tomato ketchup followed or accompanied by butterscotch flavour Angel Delight.
On that particular day of my decision to run away from home all had been going quite well. Play was good, Tea was good. The evening paper had arrived and I scoured the TV listings for anything interesting to watch. In those days there were only 3 channels and that had swelled by 30% with ITV beginning to broadcast. Of course still only black and white available. At 7pm there was a Western to be shown. I really wanted to watch that even though it was after the parentally imposed watershed for a school night. A trade off was necessary to oil the wheels of parental decision making. I practised the script in my head of ' If I am washed and in pyjamas and otherwise ready for bed can I stay up late and watch a really good programme?'. Again in my head the answer would undoubtedly and resoundingly be 'Yes'.
It was NO. I was a bit knocked back by this. Initial stunned silence was followed by a whining and blubbering, then a gentle kicking out at the legs of the kitchen table. I could feel the colour rising in my face and the salty sting of genuine tears (very discernible from the false crocodile type). Any appeal to my parents was resolutely repelled. Something was said, Mother appealed to Father with "Donald, put your foot down", another thing thrown and the door slammed as I ran upstairs to pack up my belongings.
Such a dramatic chain of events cannot help but draw attention and my siblings gleefully followed me to see what would happen next. At age 7 I did not have a lot of possessions. Action Man and outfits , Corgi and Matchbox toy cars, a few Ladybird Books and enough clothes to populate three shallow drawers and a cupboard in a small dresser that my Grandfather had made. Over the blur of time I am not not sure if I found a bag or in fact wrapped up my things in a large square cloth and tied it to a long stick to be carried over my shoulder. The confusing issue is that I did take part in a fancy dress competiton as Dick Whittington around that time with my younger sister as the leotard and face painted whiskered cat. Anyway, I announced my departure and left the front door wide open in extra defiance.
My siblings trailed after me, either to wish me well or just see me off the premises. At the driveway gates I had to walk through a small crowd of children. My mumbled reason for carrying a stick with bulging hankerchief excited considerable interest and by the first lampost up the street I had quite a following.
In the background I could hear sounds from the laying down of wooden stilts, the resting of bikes in hedges, the careless fall to the path of a scooter, a silence where there had been the 'whip, whack' sound of a long skipping rope, the bounce and roll of an abandoned football. Even the intricacies of cats cradles, passed between the grubby hands of countless youngsters, ceased. The gathering would soon attract the attention of the Authorities under the Civil Unrest Legislation. Every child in the entourage began to ask the same questions of me, " What yer doin?", "where ya goin?", "Can I have yer bike if you don't want it?" and so on.
My anger and outrage, that caused me to leave home, was rapidly turning into exhaustion and not a little embarassment with all the attention. Concerned parents, having noticed from lounge windows the nearly-riotous assembly in the street, could be heard calling in their children and the tail end of the crowd was being picked off one by one in this way.
In a smart about turn I almost skittled away those following closest and went back home. I had managed to leave home by a distance of about five house driveways up the street. I felt that would make enough of a statement of intent to my parents who would not now have any doubts about the serious nature of their behaviour.
As I entered the kitchen my parents looked up with that all-knowing expression that I later mastered myself with my own young children. If I remember correctly I did get to watch a bit of that Western when washed and in pyjamas but it was rubbish and I began to wonder what all the fuss had been about.
Bedtime.
It all happened on a bright and warm summers evening but still during school term. Any schooling beyond, say June, I considered to be a waste of time. The weather was too good to be confined to a classroom and anyway, with the long holidays approaching everything was winding down and with no urgency or commitment. I would rush home at the end of school, or rather walk across the playing field and through the gate in the back fence of our house. There was that advantage of living next to the school, just that one. My Mother would have a drink and biscuit ready. A tall, narrow faded red plastic tupperware beaker close to full with orange squash and a digestive. Delicious.
Then out to play. We lived in a cul de sac, on a gentle slope and with a nice wide pavement which swept the corners and curves formed around the grassy verges and the driveways to the neighbouring houses. At exactly 4pm in any good weather, be it the depths of winter or high summer it was as though the Pied Piper had struck up a tune. Out of the houses there poured and tumbled children, toddlers with older brothers and sisters, independent under 5's, boys of ages 6 to 8 dressed as cowboys or spacemen, girls of the same age range as ballerinas or nurses. Political correctness and equal opportunitues had not yet been invented. Of course if it were a friday then Westgarth Gardens would be again deserted at 5 minutes to 5pm as it was time for Crackerjack on the TV.
After some time coursing and rampaging about it would be time for tea. Fish fingers, chips and peas were a favourite with lashings of tomato ketchup followed or accompanied by butterscotch flavour Angel Delight.
On that particular day of my decision to run away from home all had been going quite well. Play was good, Tea was good. The evening paper had arrived and I scoured the TV listings for anything interesting to watch. In those days there were only 3 channels and that had swelled by 30% with ITV beginning to broadcast. Of course still only black and white available. At 7pm there was a Western to be shown. I really wanted to watch that even though it was after the parentally imposed watershed for a school night. A trade off was necessary to oil the wheels of parental decision making. I practised the script in my head of ' If I am washed and in pyjamas and otherwise ready for bed can I stay up late and watch a really good programme?'. Again in my head the answer would undoubtedly and resoundingly be 'Yes'.
It was NO. I was a bit knocked back by this. Initial stunned silence was followed by a whining and blubbering, then a gentle kicking out at the legs of the kitchen table. I could feel the colour rising in my face and the salty sting of genuine tears (very discernible from the false crocodile type). Any appeal to my parents was resolutely repelled. Something was said, Mother appealed to Father with "Donald, put your foot down", another thing thrown and the door slammed as I ran upstairs to pack up my belongings.
Such a dramatic chain of events cannot help but draw attention and my siblings gleefully followed me to see what would happen next. At age 7 I did not have a lot of possessions. Action Man and outfits , Corgi and Matchbox toy cars, a few Ladybird Books and enough clothes to populate three shallow drawers and a cupboard in a small dresser that my Grandfather had made. Over the blur of time I am not not sure if I found a bag or in fact wrapped up my things in a large square cloth and tied it to a long stick to be carried over my shoulder. The confusing issue is that I did take part in a fancy dress competiton as Dick Whittington around that time with my younger sister as the leotard and face painted whiskered cat. Anyway, I announced my departure and left the front door wide open in extra defiance.
My siblings trailed after me, either to wish me well or just see me off the premises. At the driveway gates I had to walk through a small crowd of children. My mumbled reason for carrying a stick with bulging hankerchief excited considerable interest and by the first lampost up the street I had quite a following.
In the background I could hear sounds from the laying down of wooden stilts, the resting of bikes in hedges, the careless fall to the path of a scooter, a silence where there had been the 'whip, whack' sound of a long skipping rope, the bounce and roll of an abandoned football. Even the intricacies of cats cradles, passed between the grubby hands of countless youngsters, ceased. The gathering would soon attract the attention of the Authorities under the Civil Unrest Legislation. Every child in the entourage began to ask the same questions of me, " What yer doin?", "where ya goin?", "Can I have yer bike if you don't want it?" and so on.
My anger and outrage, that caused me to leave home, was rapidly turning into exhaustion and not a little embarassment with all the attention. Concerned parents, having noticed from lounge windows the nearly-riotous assembly in the street, could be heard calling in their children and the tail end of the crowd was being picked off one by one in this way.
In a smart about turn I almost skittled away those following closest and went back home. I had managed to leave home by a distance of about five house driveways up the street. I felt that would make enough of a statement of intent to my parents who would not now have any doubts about the serious nature of their behaviour.
As I entered the kitchen my parents looked up with that all-knowing expression that I later mastered myself with my own young children. If I remember correctly I did get to watch a bit of that Western when washed and in pyjamas but it was rubbish and I began to wonder what all the fuss had been about.
Bedtime.
Friday, 9 March 2012
School Trip
School Trips were always a welcome interruption to the educational treadmill. There was real excitement and anticipation in seeing the roadway in front of the school gates either marked out with traffic cones to deter parents from ejecting their children whilst still in a forward gear or with an actual parked bus or coach. Not just an ordinary vehicle but often in the gawdy livery of a tour company, smart seats and lots of nozzles, switches and ashtrays to fiddle with during the journey.
The run-up to a trip was always a bit difficult because it meant giving a slip of paper and a demand for money to parents. Looking back, an all in cost of £4.50 for transport, packed lunch and a ticket for an England International Football match at the old Wembley Stadium was extraordinary value but in 1974 it was a small fortune, equivalent to a pair of shoes or a weekly domestic shop.
Trips were always non-uniform. This gave me a problem because although properly kitted out I was not the most up to date in fashions and trend- truthfully, never have been and never will be. In the 70's the lads wore their multi pocketed Oxford Bags, high buttoned waist band like a cumberbund, flared legs and an attitude to match. The lasses would go for slacks and jumpers, a bit like a cover girl for Mandy Magazine. Tartan was a major theme from the ascendancy of the boy band of the time, The Bay City Rollers. I went for smart trousers, polo type shirt and a cardigan or a tank top.
So attired the queue waiting to board the bus, in some case being physically held back by the already harrassed driver or an unfortunate designated responsible person resembled that for a disco or saturday cinema club. As soon as the concertina doors of the bus opened there was a mad dash for the occupancy of the back seat. I usually ambled on later and got to sit behind the driver or next to a teacher.
The back seat was a den of subversive activities such as snogging, necking and the occasional love bite hickey. Traffic stuck behind the bus or alongside was fair game for a two finger salute, sticky out tongues or worse and potentially a moonie against the windows. That was just the girls of the back seat squatters. The narrow upper sliding windows to the sides of the bus were regularly used to dump sweet and sandwich wrappers, cans and bottles onto the verge or intentionally into the path of a vehicle which did not acknowledge the waves and gestures of an unruly and sugar infused crowd of pupils.
I was well behaved on the bus because of where I was sat and also because of travel sickness. The pill based medecine proved ineffective and it was a case of sneaking aboard a newspaper for sitting on which although of no proven science did work very well psychologically.
Actual venues for trips are largely forgotten although I do remember a very long journey to a zoo, a castle in some cathedral city ( suggestions by e mail please) and a factory where they made potato crisps.The latter was much anticipated but when I saw them shovelling the dry flavouring powder onto the hot oil coated potato slivers I was mightily disappointed. I am not sure how I expected the process operated but surely not from the end of a shovel.
My last school trip was to Eureka, the childrens museum in the bottom of the valley which is the Yorkshire town of Halifax.
As usual there was a clamour for places on the coach but with the introduction of seat belts there was little scope for ranging about above seat headrest height. In the Health and Safety culture we were given a briefing on behaviour and other things loosely and cringingly called 'housekeeping'. We had of course been respectfully requested to surrender any glass bottles, fizzy carbonated drinks, alcohol and tobacco products, mobile phones and electronic games. The atmosphere was accordingly a bit subdued and with the murmur of polite conversation akin to an old peoples outing.
I had thought of starting up with a rendition of 'stop the bus I want a wee-wee' but it felt unlikely that anyone would take up the mantra and run with it. There was the faint rustling of greaseproof paper from meticulously prepared pack-up lunches following on from the guidance of the school about not missing out on the required 5 a day nutrients.
We parked up at the museum. A wonderful place with interactive displays and the sponsorship of the main features by large Corporations and Brand Names. I ran about madly with a trolley in the supermarket and dashed about between the human body section. There was too much to do to think about sitting down for lunch and I skipped it to dismantle a car and its wheels in the Kwik-Fit garage. There was some educational content, unfortunately, but I found the worksheets and quizzes pretty easy.
By mid afternoon I was exhausted but happy. The gift shop was the last stopping off point and I blew all my moneys on a pencil and pad. We were all counted back onto the bus, no strays, and it strained under its full contingent up the valley sides from the town centre and towards the motorway. I was soon comfortable and settled amongst the brightly coloured upholstery, the right temple of my head resting on the cool and periodically jarring window as we encountered rough patches of tarmac. Cars, lorries and vans flashed by in the middle and fast lanes. The motion and warmth lulled me into a deep sleep.
I was rudely awoken by a jolt as the bus parked up outside the school. Bleary eyed and a bit muscle cramped I stretched and looked at my ten year old son . The other parents who had volunteered to help out and supervise on the school trip regarded me with disdain.
I was not asked to help out ever again.
The run-up to a trip was always a bit difficult because it meant giving a slip of paper and a demand for money to parents. Looking back, an all in cost of £4.50 for transport, packed lunch and a ticket for an England International Football match at the old Wembley Stadium was extraordinary value but in 1974 it was a small fortune, equivalent to a pair of shoes or a weekly domestic shop.
Trips were always non-uniform. This gave me a problem because although properly kitted out I was not the most up to date in fashions and trend- truthfully, never have been and never will be. In the 70's the lads wore their multi pocketed Oxford Bags, high buttoned waist band like a cumberbund, flared legs and an attitude to match. The lasses would go for slacks and jumpers, a bit like a cover girl for Mandy Magazine. Tartan was a major theme from the ascendancy of the boy band of the time, The Bay City Rollers. I went for smart trousers, polo type shirt and a cardigan or a tank top.
So attired the queue waiting to board the bus, in some case being physically held back by the already harrassed driver or an unfortunate designated responsible person resembled that for a disco or saturday cinema club. As soon as the concertina doors of the bus opened there was a mad dash for the occupancy of the back seat. I usually ambled on later and got to sit behind the driver or next to a teacher.
The back seat was a den of subversive activities such as snogging, necking and the occasional love bite hickey. Traffic stuck behind the bus or alongside was fair game for a two finger salute, sticky out tongues or worse and potentially a moonie against the windows. That was just the girls of the back seat squatters. The narrow upper sliding windows to the sides of the bus were regularly used to dump sweet and sandwich wrappers, cans and bottles onto the verge or intentionally into the path of a vehicle which did not acknowledge the waves and gestures of an unruly and sugar infused crowd of pupils.
I was well behaved on the bus because of where I was sat and also because of travel sickness. The pill based medecine proved ineffective and it was a case of sneaking aboard a newspaper for sitting on which although of no proven science did work very well psychologically.
Actual venues for trips are largely forgotten although I do remember a very long journey to a zoo, a castle in some cathedral city ( suggestions by e mail please) and a factory where they made potato crisps.The latter was much anticipated but when I saw them shovelling the dry flavouring powder onto the hot oil coated potato slivers I was mightily disappointed. I am not sure how I expected the process operated but surely not from the end of a shovel.
My last school trip was to Eureka, the childrens museum in the bottom of the valley which is the Yorkshire town of Halifax.
As usual there was a clamour for places on the coach but with the introduction of seat belts there was little scope for ranging about above seat headrest height. In the Health and Safety culture we were given a briefing on behaviour and other things loosely and cringingly called 'housekeeping'. We had of course been respectfully requested to surrender any glass bottles, fizzy carbonated drinks, alcohol and tobacco products, mobile phones and electronic games. The atmosphere was accordingly a bit subdued and with the murmur of polite conversation akin to an old peoples outing.
I had thought of starting up with a rendition of 'stop the bus I want a wee-wee' but it felt unlikely that anyone would take up the mantra and run with it. There was the faint rustling of greaseproof paper from meticulously prepared pack-up lunches following on from the guidance of the school about not missing out on the required 5 a day nutrients.
We parked up at the museum. A wonderful place with interactive displays and the sponsorship of the main features by large Corporations and Brand Names. I ran about madly with a trolley in the supermarket and dashed about between the human body section. There was too much to do to think about sitting down for lunch and I skipped it to dismantle a car and its wheels in the Kwik-Fit garage. There was some educational content, unfortunately, but I found the worksheets and quizzes pretty easy.
By mid afternoon I was exhausted but happy. The gift shop was the last stopping off point and I blew all my moneys on a pencil and pad. We were all counted back onto the bus, no strays, and it strained under its full contingent up the valley sides from the town centre and towards the motorway. I was soon comfortable and settled amongst the brightly coloured upholstery, the right temple of my head resting on the cool and periodically jarring window as we encountered rough patches of tarmac. Cars, lorries and vans flashed by in the middle and fast lanes. The motion and warmth lulled me into a deep sleep.
I was rudely awoken by a jolt as the bus parked up outside the school. Bleary eyed and a bit muscle cramped I stretched and looked at my ten year old son . The other parents who had volunteered to help out and supervise on the school trip regarded me with disdain.
I was not asked to help out ever again.
Thursday, 8 March 2012
House tale takeover
We bought our current house from an elderly couple. They had lived there for some considerable time. It was a bit dated, dusty and fusty but satisfied the requirements of our young family.
For the first time we would have a driveway instead of the gamble and scramble of streetside parking, a front garden rather than a forecourt or straight onto the pavement , a large rear garden in place of a yard , a garage and greenhouse to replace our previous small wooden shed. It was with some persistence that we got the house as it was in a good location , just a short walk from where we then lived, and very much in demand. The For Sale board went up on a saturday morning with viewings through a local builder who had taken it in part exchange for a larger, brand new and higher priced detached in a popular commuter village some 3 miles away.
I glimpsed the flagboard as I nosed the car out of our terraced street and immediately rang for a viewing. We were informed that it was a free for all open house arrangement that afternoon if we could get there from 2pm. The children scrubbed up well and we tried to look like we had the intention to purchase if not, at that stage, the monetary means.
The front garden was neatly trimmed to the lawn and borders behind a rather dated yorkstone wall with wrought iron railings and gates. The frontage was dominated by a large Plane Tree which had heaved up the pedestrian pavement and my eye also noticed some damage to the wall and a snaking root like a worm cast up the tarmac driveway. We had always admired that particular house. It was one of two pairs only in the street, built in the 1920's, in traditional white coarse pebble dashed walls, slate roof and a recessed balustraded balcony. The vendor, who we later ascertained from the fact that everything from garden tools to wiring loops were labelled, was of former high rank in the RAF and maintained his regimental stature even in later years. His wife and sister in law were in the background. The hallway was bright and light but with a very heavy and dusty carpet, obviously of high quality in the 1950's and now a bit faded and with a degree of shrinkage away from the skirtings. The internal doors, in profile were substantial but smooth faced as was the practice in the 1960's to cover anything panelled with hardboard sheeting. We were shown the lounge. It was by comparison to ours huge, bay windowed and with a 1930's tiled mantelpiece. The chandelier hanging from the authentic plaster rose was perfectly fitting and to scale with the room. At the back of the house with modern french doors overlooking the garden was a smaller sitting room. A large red tiled fireplace took up a good proportion of the room but housed only a single bar electric fire. Two reception rooms would have been sufficient but there was a further dining room paralell to the driveway. The aluminium window frame was responsible for a surprising amount of light for a north facing aspect. Pale green coloured cupboards filled the alcove adjacent to the chimney breast. Next, the kitchen. The fittings were a candidate for a museum, metal fronted doors, dresser type larder cupboard and formica worktops with gawdy tiling. Certainly a winner of the ideal homes kitchen of the year in 1950. The children had lost interest by now and were getting a bit bored of 'oohing; and 'aahing' at each sight presented by the next opened door.
Upstairs were four bedrooms and an ancient but functional bathroom. The smallest bedroom had a door onto the cool sheltered balcony and a deep bulkhead cupboard. It may be considered rude to look in the loft but the Squadron Leader (retired) insisted on showing more boarding out and the intricate wiring diagram he had etched out on the surface.
In the garden, a very productive one, we could expect almost total self sufficiency with fruit trees, raspberry and gooseberry canes, vegetable patch and a flower filled greenhouse. Let rip, the children claimed the garden for themselves and if we could manage to raise the funds to purchase we felt we would be perfectly at home under that roof.
As we thanked our resident tour guides and left we passed an affluent looking couple on their way in. It would take a miracle for all things to come together in our favour. Our own house was not yet on the market but wonder upon wonder we had an agreed sale within only 3 days of our Estate Agent putting up the board. My business had performed well over the previous couple of years and was in a position to forward a small deposit which hepled to coax the balance of funds from the Building Society. I did quite a bit of the fetching and carrying of paper, documents and contracts between Solicitors and within a couple of months we moved in to the big, old, draughty and dated house but it was now our home, at least for the next seventeen years.
For the first time we would have a driveway instead of the gamble and scramble of streetside parking, a front garden rather than a forecourt or straight onto the pavement , a large rear garden in place of a yard , a garage and greenhouse to replace our previous small wooden shed. It was with some persistence that we got the house as it was in a good location , just a short walk from where we then lived, and very much in demand. The For Sale board went up on a saturday morning with viewings through a local builder who had taken it in part exchange for a larger, brand new and higher priced detached in a popular commuter village some 3 miles away.
I glimpsed the flagboard as I nosed the car out of our terraced street and immediately rang for a viewing. We were informed that it was a free for all open house arrangement that afternoon if we could get there from 2pm. The children scrubbed up well and we tried to look like we had the intention to purchase if not, at that stage, the monetary means.
The front garden was neatly trimmed to the lawn and borders behind a rather dated yorkstone wall with wrought iron railings and gates. The frontage was dominated by a large Plane Tree which had heaved up the pedestrian pavement and my eye also noticed some damage to the wall and a snaking root like a worm cast up the tarmac driveway. We had always admired that particular house. It was one of two pairs only in the street, built in the 1920's, in traditional white coarse pebble dashed walls, slate roof and a recessed balustraded balcony. The vendor, who we later ascertained from the fact that everything from garden tools to wiring loops were labelled, was of former high rank in the RAF and maintained his regimental stature even in later years. His wife and sister in law were in the background. The hallway was bright and light but with a very heavy and dusty carpet, obviously of high quality in the 1950's and now a bit faded and with a degree of shrinkage away from the skirtings. The internal doors, in profile were substantial but smooth faced as was the practice in the 1960's to cover anything panelled with hardboard sheeting. We were shown the lounge. It was by comparison to ours huge, bay windowed and with a 1930's tiled mantelpiece. The chandelier hanging from the authentic plaster rose was perfectly fitting and to scale with the room. At the back of the house with modern french doors overlooking the garden was a smaller sitting room. A large red tiled fireplace took up a good proportion of the room but housed only a single bar electric fire. Two reception rooms would have been sufficient but there was a further dining room paralell to the driveway. The aluminium window frame was responsible for a surprising amount of light for a north facing aspect. Pale green coloured cupboards filled the alcove adjacent to the chimney breast. Next, the kitchen. The fittings were a candidate for a museum, metal fronted doors, dresser type larder cupboard and formica worktops with gawdy tiling. Certainly a winner of the ideal homes kitchen of the year in 1950. The children had lost interest by now and were getting a bit bored of 'oohing; and 'aahing' at each sight presented by the next opened door.
Upstairs were four bedrooms and an ancient but functional bathroom. The smallest bedroom had a door onto the cool sheltered balcony and a deep bulkhead cupboard. It may be considered rude to look in the loft but the Squadron Leader (retired) insisted on showing more boarding out and the intricate wiring diagram he had etched out on the surface.
In the garden, a very productive one, we could expect almost total self sufficiency with fruit trees, raspberry and gooseberry canes, vegetable patch and a flower filled greenhouse. Let rip, the children claimed the garden for themselves and if we could manage to raise the funds to purchase we felt we would be perfectly at home under that roof.
As we thanked our resident tour guides and left we passed an affluent looking couple on their way in. It would take a miracle for all things to come together in our favour. Our own house was not yet on the market but wonder upon wonder we had an agreed sale within only 3 days of our Estate Agent putting up the board. My business had performed well over the previous couple of years and was in a position to forward a small deposit which hepled to coax the balance of funds from the Building Society. I did quite a bit of the fetching and carrying of paper, documents and contracts between Solicitors and within a couple of months we moved in to the big, old, draughty and dated house but it was now our home, at least for the next seventeen years.
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Wash up or washout?
Driving between jobs in the car I just caught the tail end of a very lively debate on the radio about how the modern domestic appliance of a dishwasher has destroyed the most sacred of family activities- washing up at the sink. After some recollection and general thought I believe that there is some considerable truth in that statement.
Father was the best at washing up. He revelled in the daily chore and excelled at the times of the year when our dining room resembled the grand dining hall at Hogwarts School with a full assembly of up to 19 family members. Us siblings and our own offspring would hover around the kitchen door after Boxing Day tea or Easter Sunday lunch volunteering to assist in the huge transfer of plates, bowls, tureens, platters, knives, forks and spoons on the heirloom trolley across the mosaic tile floor of the hallway, past the foot of the stairs and with a bump over the threshold to negotiate a sharp left turn around the fridge freezer to get a clear run in to the twin drainer stainless steel sink unit. Father assumed the principal washer-upper position. Two helpers would be delegated to unloading the trolley and stacking the dirty ware whilst another two hovered around to seize the warm, soapy and squeaky clean items as they emerged from the washing up bowl nestled cosily in the sink basin for tea towel drying.
The secret to the whole operation was the scalding hot temperature of the water which in near boiling frenzy spat out of the tap after an almost centre of the earth pressure and process in the Aga range. Father donned his marigold rubber gloves and he was away. Under the production line type operation there was however serenity and calm. It was an ideal time to catch Father off guard from his shy, self concious and very modest nature and many a memory, anecdote or wicked joke emerged. A particularly memorable observation, or should it have been a confession, was that a one time next door neighbour, a Danish lady used to do her own washing up whilst topless and in almost direct clear view of our kitchen window if you stood slightly off balance.
The washing up also satisfied Fathers requirement for a brief escape from the full contingent of family and even when stacking, washing and drying was fully completed and signed off he would stay on in the kitchen for as long as possible whilst the mayhem, madness, merriment and monkey coat wearing that was the chocolate game erupted in the other room.
When growing up as one of 5 children the ritual of washing up was a major part of the family experience. We all ate, during the week, at the kitchen table. This was of stout pale pine with matching chairs and a refectory style bench seat. It was very busy in preparation for school and the prospect of a rapid route walk slipstreaming Father who would deposit us at the gates to our respective establishments before getting to his workplace in the town centre. That was until younger brother doubled back and went home. There was an enquiry about that. Most days the washing up had to left for Mother because the hot water supply from boiler and immersion heated cylinder was depleted from it high demands to get us all presentable.
Conversations were started, developed and concluded at the kitchen sink. A rota was posted up showing responsibilities prior to and following family meals and blocks of time were regularly traded as though stocks and shares. It was also a time for fun and it was usually the case that more water and Fairy Liquid suds ended up on the vinyl floor or the kitchen than made it onto the plates and down the plughole. A washing up liquid bottle emptied of its emerald green detergent made an excellent water pistol. Under a full squeeze an arc of faintly lime coloured water could be propelled almost the full length of the back garden or if uncontrolled, all up the kitchen wall and ceiling.
There were of course casualties in the process of washing up. A badly and loosely arranged pile of still soapy flatware was always at risk from shearing away off the drainer and cascading with a Greek style chorus of smashing and fracturing pottery. Fortunately, we had a lot of plastic Tupperware and although this could get quite out of shape in very hot washing up water it only bounced and rolled away if it hit the floor.
Late night washing up took on a special quality. There remains a nice feeling about going to bed knowing that the kitchen sink is clear and the pots are washed and cleaned although not necessarily put away. I was definitely brought up proper with regard to washing up and can faithfully say that even as a student I did not, knowingly, leave anything on the drainer or in the sink for more than a few days.
So, with all this fond recollection of washing up why do I now have an automatic dishwasher?
It is a status symbol. I bathe in the envious gaze of others shoppers in Sainsbury's with my dishwasher supplies of tablet detergent, rinse aid, large bag of salt, Calgon things and even a de-odouriser taking up a good proportion of the trolley and making up, at least, 20% of my whole grocery budget.
It is however a joyless thing and there is no emotion about loading up and later emptying the machine. As a man I thrive in getting as many items as possible into the racks. This makes sense but some 3 hours later the beeping end of cycle indicator only heralds the possibilty of having to hand wash part of even a higher proportion of the load still speckled with food residues.
Many conversations in polite Cafe culture revolve around the perceived benefits in time and effort from having a dishwasher.
It is possible that recent generations of children do not know how to undertake manual washing up. Parents with high tech eco-dishwashers and the demise of Domestic Science in schools make this a distinct but disturbing reality. Do The Sims on X-Box, PC and other media forms do any washing up in their virtual world which could serve as a role model?
It is very sad that they will have missed out on such a family activity which has been a source of precious memories and much useful information in my own life.
Father was the best at washing up. He revelled in the daily chore and excelled at the times of the year when our dining room resembled the grand dining hall at Hogwarts School with a full assembly of up to 19 family members. Us siblings and our own offspring would hover around the kitchen door after Boxing Day tea or Easter Sunday lunch volunteering to assist in the huge transfer of plates, bowls, tureens, platters, knives, forks and spoons on the heirloom trolley across the mosaic tile floor of the hallway, past the foot of the stairs and with a bump over the threshold to negotiate a sharp left turn around the fridge freezer to get a clear run in to the twin drainer stainless steel sink unit. Father assumed the principal washer-upper position. Two helpers would be delegated to unloading the trolley and stacking the dirty ware whilst another two hovered around to seize the warm, soapy and squeaky clean items as they emerged from the washing up bowl nestled cosily in the sink basin for tea towel drying.
The secret to the whole operation was the scalding hot temperature of the water which in near boiling frenzy spat out of the tap after an almost centre of the earth pressure and process in the Aga range. Father donned his marigold rubber gloves and he was away. Under the production line type operation there was however serenity and calm. It was an ideal time to catch Father off guard from his shy, self concious and very modest nature and many a memory, anecdote or wicked joke emerged. A particularly memorable observation, or should it have been a confession, was that a one time next door neighbour, a Danish lady used to do her own washing up whilst topless and in almost direct clear view of our kitchen window if you stood slightly off balance.
The washing up also satisfied Fathers requirement for a brief escape from the full contingent of family and even when stacking, washing and drying was fully completed and signed off he would stay on in the kitchen for as long as possible whilst the mayhem, madness, merriment and monkey coat wearing that was the chocolate game erupted in the other room.
When growing up as one of 5 children the ritual of washing up was a major part of the family experience. We all ate, during the week, at the kitchen table. This was of stout pale pine with matching chairs and a refectory style bench seat. It was very busy in preparation for school and the prospect of a rapid route walk slipstreaming Father who would deposit us at the gates to our respective establishments before getting to his workplace in the town centre. That was until younger brother doubled back and went home. There was an enquiry about that. Most days the washing up had to left for Mother because the hot water supply from boiler and immersion heated cylinder was depleted from it high demands to get us all presentable.
Conversations were started, developed and concluded at the kitchen sink. A rota was posted up showing responsibilities prior to and following family meals and blocks of time were regularly traded as though stocks and shares. It was also a time for fun and it was usually the case that more water and Fairy Liquid suds ended up on the vinyl floor or the kitchen than made it onto the plates and down the plughole. A washing up liquid bottle emptied of its emerald green detergent made an excellent water pistol. Under a full squeeze an arc of faintly lime coloured water could be propelled almost the full length of the back garden or if uncontrolled, all up the kitchen wall and ceiling.
There were of course casualties in the process of washing up. A badly and loosely arranged pile of still soapy flatware was always at risk from shearing away off the drainer and cascading with a Greek style chorus of smashing and fracturing pottery. Fortunately, we had a lot of plastic Tupperware and although this could get quite out of shape in very hot washing up water it only bounced and rolled away if it hit the floor.
Late night washing up took on a special quality. There remains a nice feeling about going to bed knowing that the kitchen sink is clear and the pots are washed and cleaned although not necessarily put away. I was definitely brought up proper with regard to washing up and can faithfully say that even as a student I did not, knowingly, leave anything on the drainer or in the sink for more than a few days.
So, with all this fond recollection of washing up why do I now have an automatic dishwasher?
It is a status symbol. I bathe in the envious gaze of others shoppers in Sainsbury's with my dishwasher supplies of tablet detergent, rinse aid, large bag of salt, Calgon things and even a de-odouriser taking up a good proportion of the trolley and making up, at least, 20% of my whole grocery budget.
It is however a joyless thing and there is no emotion about loading up and later emptying the machine. As a man I thrive in getting as many items as possible into the racks. This makes sense but some 3 hours later the beeping end of cycle indicator only heralds the possibilty of having to hand wash part of even a higher proportion of the load still speckled with food residues.
Many conversations in polite Cafe culture revolve around the perceived benefits in time and effort from having a dishwasher.
It is possible that recent generations of children do not know how to undertake manual washing up. Parents with high tech eco-dishwashers and the demise of Domestic Science in schools make this a distinct but disturbing reality. Do The Sims on X-Box, PC and other media forms do any washing up in their virtual world which could serve as a role model?
It is very sad that they will have missed out on such a family activity which has been a source of precious memories and much useful information in my own life.
Tuesday, 6 March 2012
Bark at the Moon
I do not hold by astrology but at the full moon I feel most vulnerable, hounded by negativity and on the edge of lunacy.
I feel like just hiding away indoors out of the maddening rays unless of course it is cloudy and no one actually mentions what phase the moon has reached. At other times moonlight is soothing and reassuring or a reminder of the interaction of nature whether a huge oversized and orange harvest moon, frost hazed winter moon or blood red from the atmospheric infusion of dust and pollutants.
I have followed the prospect of a lunar eclipse when it is viewable from our area and once cycled with my sisters some considerable miles to peer through a home made pin hole eclipse device, commonly known as a shoe box, whilst stood outside and to the bemusement of patrons of a village pub. Even the merest sliver of a new moon can be dramatic. Just last week the slim crescent was closely accompanied by a twinkling low earth orbit satellite or the International Space Station, majestic in a clear early spring night. I do tend to churn around loose change in my pockets at a new moon under the old wives tale that your money will double. That has never to my knowledge actually happened.
At the time of the NASA Missions to the moon I admit to trying, with the naked eye and from the top of our garden climbing frame, to see if I could spot anything faintly rockety or astronauty on the glowing face of those magically named seas and mountains. To a 6 year, old even the silhouette of a high flying night bird across the silver face of the moon was accepted to be Armstrong, Aldrin and the other one coursing about in Apollo 11. I was later wracked with anxiety when the moon blasted out of earth orbit as a consequence of exploding deposits of stored nuclear waste. That turned out to be a TV series. Damn you Gerry Anderson.
To my utter dismay I have just been reading about the sale of land on the moon which has been going on since 1980.
For a price of £20 sterling it is possible to purchase, from the Lunar Embassy in the United States or their UK licensee, Moon Estates a patch of lunar real estate extending to 1 acre somewhere in the region of Oceanus Procellarum which can be pointed out as being just to the north west corner of the bit that faces Earth. Parting with £20 is not too severe and in terms of expenditure on a gift or a gesture it is quite reasonable. Some 6 million people, if rationing themselves to a single acre, have subscribed to the service qualifying for a fancy certificate or title deed. The novelty value is undoubted, not as good however as having a star named after you and certainly much more selfish than purchasing a goat, fishing rod or a pack of seeds.
Unfortunately, a few have viewed the acquisition of a plot on the moon with more avariscious intentions for a long term investment. The entrepreneur behind the whole operation attests to having researched the validity of ownership even when such legislation as the United Nations Outer Space Treaty of 1967 does not recognise any claim of sovereignty by use, occupation or by any other means. The loophole, because there is always a loophole, is that the Treaty does not refer specifically to individuals and consequently a business selling a dusty and rocky surface to Joe and Josephine public in our galaxy but still far, far away was born.
The fact that public access to visit and put an overlap fence,decking with bamboo screen or Yorkstone wall around what is owned is not available currently has led to some relaxation of sanctions by the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) who do admit that they have no compulsion to take such things seriously. I have sent off for an application form for any post going in that particular department. It may not be too much of a small step for the likes of Richard Branson to extend his space dreams to a moon landing and to claim virgin land and all the cross-selling potential that goes with that.
The Lunar Embassy Director claims to have a well advanced research programme to transport his clients to their land holdings in a leisurely and comfortable 30 minutes under an anti gravitic propulsion system attaining speeds of 99% of the speed of light. All very well but what happens to golf clubs and sun shade umbrellas under such conditions.
After plundering the depleted reserves on, under and within our own planet the moon would logically be the next target for exploitation. I have serious concerns for the welfare of The Clangers and the Soup Dragon if not already guilty of squatting on someones property already. The entrepreneur may well just leave them to whistle in the solar winds. It may not be too long before we receive photographs of friends and relatives standing in their alloted plots, proud and possessive. If they ask what I would like for a souvenir of their trip I will probably just opt for some of that famous cheese.
I feel like just hiding away indoors out of the maddening rays unless of course it is cloudy and no one actually mentions what phase the moon has reached. At other times moonlight is soothing and reassuring or a reminder of the interaction of nature whether a huge oversized and orange harvest moon, frost hazed winter moon or blood red from the atmospheric infusion of dust and pollutants.
I have followed the prospect of a lunar eclipse when it is viewable from our area and once cycled with my sisters some considerable miles to peer through a home made pin hole eclipse device, commonly known as a shoe box, whilst stood outside and to the bemusement of patrons of a village pub. Even the merest sliver of a new moon can be dramatic. Just last week the slim crescent was closely accompanied by a twinkling low earth orbit satellite or the International Space Station, majestic in a clear early spring night. I do tend to churn around loose change in my pockets at a new moon under the old wives tale that your money will double. That has never to my knowledge actually happened.
At the time of the NASA Missions to the moon I admit to trying, with the naked eye and from the top of our garden climbing frame, to see if I could spot anything faintly rockety or astronauty on the glowing face of those magically named seas and mountains. To a 6 year, old even the silhouette of a high flying night bird across the silver face of the moon was accepted to be Armstrong, Aldrin and the other one coursing about in Apollo 11. I was later wracked with anxiety when the moon blasted out of earth orbit as a consequence of exploding deposits of stored nuclear waste. That turned out to be a TV series. Damn you Gerry Anderson.
To my utter dismay I have just been reading about the sale of land on the moon which has been going on since 1980.
For a price of £20 sterling it is possible to purchase, from the Lunar Embassy in the United States or their UK licensee, Moon Estates a patch of lunar real estate extending to 1 acre somewhere in the region of Oceanus Procellarum which can be pointed out as being just to the north west corner of the bit that faces Earth. Parting with £20 is not too severe and in terms of expenditure on a gift or a gesture it is quite reasonable. Some 6 million people, if rationing themselves to a single acre, have subscribed to the service qualifying for a fancy certificate or title deed. The novelty value is undoubted, not as good however as having a star named after you and certainly much more selfish than purchasing a goat, fishing rod or a pack of seeds.
Unfortunately, a few have viewed the acquisition of a plot on the moon with more avariscious intentions for a long term investment. The entrepreneur behind the whole operation attests to having researched the validity of ownership even when such legislation as the United Nations Outer Space Treaty of 1967 does not recognise any claim of sovereignty by use, occupation or by any other means. The loophole, because there is always a loophole, is that the Treaty does not refer specifically to individuals and consequently a business selling a dusty and rocky surface to Joe and Josephine public in our galaxy but still far, far away was born.
The fact that public access to visit and put an overlap fence,decking with bamboo screen or Yorkstone wall around what is owned is not available currently has led to some relaxation of sanctions by the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) who do admit that they have no compulsion to take such things seriously. I have sent off for an application form for any post going in that particular department. It may not be too much of a small step for the likes of Richard Branson to extend his space dreams to a moon landing and to claim virgin land and all the cross-selling potential that goes with that.
The Lunar Embassy Director claims to have a well advanced research programme to transport his clients to their land holdings in a leisurely and comfortable 30 minutes under an anti gravitic propulsion system attaining speeds of 99% of the speed of light. All very well but what happens to golf clubs and sun shade umbrellas under such conditions.
After plundering the depleted reserves on, under and within our own planet the moon would logically be the next target for exploitation. I have serious concerns for the welfare of The Clangers and the Soup Dragon if not already guilty of squatting on someones property already. The entrepreneur may well just leave them to whistle in the solar winds. It may not be too long before we receive photographs of friends and relatives standing in their alloted plots, proud and possessive. If they ask what I would like for a souvenir of their trip I will probably just opt for some of that famous cheese.
Monday, 5 March 2012
Man in Tights versus Captain Cook
There is always a very lively debate over which of the two is the better. Opinions can be split down the middle quite easily. Some who have experienced both will certainly hesitate over a definite choice because each has its merits and faults. I express sadness for those who had tried only one and have a blinkered outlook with no intention whatsoever to be swayed into experimenting with the other. I could be talking about a political party, equally about a breakfast cereal, brand of car or even sexual preference. I am in fact perpetuating the debate over Robin Hoods Bay versus Staithes for the best and most attractive place to stay in a rented cottage on the North Yorkshire coast. Fans of Runswick Bay are excluded. It's rubbish.
Robin Hoods Bay cannot fail to woo and impress, if only on its name which evokes magic and mystery although the origins of the name beyond having no apparent link at all with the famous outlaw are vague.It sits out of clear view just about restrained on the crumbling cliffs to the north of Scarborough and just below the whaling port of Whitby. It is a secretive place shrouded in folklaw, legend and the dubious title as one of the busiest smuggling ports in the UK in the 18th Century. Perhaps the duty evading residents were just fulfilling the expectations of the wider public for those from a village named after an historic champion of the underclass whereas the occupants of 'Payourway Bay' and 'Honesty Cove' went about a much less illegal lefestyle. The cobble road from the car park into RHB is calf and ligament straining in the extreme and even more so if struggling with a suitcase and provisions for a holiday week. Those who take a vehicle down the very steep and narrow incline are faced with very little room to exercise a three point or reversing turn at the slipway or where the road loops up to one of the public houses. On one day trip we saw the aftermath of the rampage of a runaway digger that had only been restrained by burying itself into a shop front on the first tight bend. The peak of summer is a good time to avoid the village as it overflows with visitors and cottage renters to the point of being claustrophobic. In the autumn or early spring the village is ghostly and empty but the echo of footsteps and the whistle of the wind through the streets gives the impression of being sole survivors of a global catastrophe. It takes a few years of out of season stays to become familiar with the footways and back alleys but they form an intriguing exploration of the ginnels, courts and dead-ends always with the accompanying smell of wood smoke from a hundred or more chimney pots. We have had the pleasure of renting four or five properties ranging from a double fronted Georgian townhouse with ghost to a cottage with a burrow like almost subterranean kitchen, and a draughty and damp clifftop cottage with exceptional views. At high tide the slipway throws the North Sea into the heart of the village. At low tide the beach and rock pools provide an extensive playground.
Staithes is north of Whitby and tends to be disregarded over the more picturesque and accessible RHB. There are similarities of a steep road down and a busy car park but Staithes is actually a functioning place and not so much a time capsule. It is possible to buy a postage stamp, a latte and groceries without a tourist premium or being swamped with seaside souvenirs and frivolities. The harbourside is broad and open and in the early morning sun, even a wintry one, it can be very pleasant sitting out or leaning on the railings watching the lifeboat drill or the reeling and mewling gulls around the cliff head. The harbour wall can be followed to the entrance over large concrete stepping stones or the huge sea defence boulders and rocks clambered over if living dangerously floats your boat. A small stream feeds into the sea under a footbridge giving endless hours of pooh-stick potential. With the tide out the stream can be followed a few hundred metres inland around the brightly coloured hulls of small cobbles and smacks. The village was the home to Captain James Cook in his formative maritime years from 1744 and it is easy to imagine that period with very little having changed in terms of buildings and atmosphere. One of the cottages we rented was down Fishermans Terrace, just off the main street and close to the pub.Other holiday breaks were higher up the escarpment with rooftop views over red pantiles streaked with guano and blackened by a few chimney fires from those getting a bit carried away with their first introduction to solid fuel without an instruction manual or in the strangely welcome absence of a signal to allow consultation of the smart phone and tablet. After the day trippers have wheezed up the steep hill to their parked cars it is quiet and very peaceful in the village. Activities in front of a roaring log fire include putting together a well worn jigsaw puzzle, building a large tower out of bits of kindling wood or steadily exhausting the cottage collection of VHS cassettes and trashy paperback novels of romance on horseback. Staithes is a place for genuine tradition and authentic living and you are more likely to strike up a conversation with an actual resident than an accountant from Slough slumming it up north.
I am completely divided in my allegiance to the two wonderful places. They have both, in their own way, excelled in meeting expectations and requirements for a family holiday at different times and in different circumstances. When something special has been called for to revive flagging spirits and energy levels we have not been left disappointed- not like those who chose Runswick Bay 'cos it really is a bit rubbish.
Robin Hoods Bay cannot fail to woo and impress, if only on its name which evokes magic and mystery although the origins of the name beyond having no apparent link at all with the famous outlaw are vague.It sits out of clear view just about restrained on the crumbling cliffs to the north of Scarborough and just below the whaling port of Whitby. It is a secretive place shrouded in folklaw, legend and the dubious title as one of the busiest smuggling ports in the UK in the 18th Century. Perhaps the duty evading residents were just fulfilling the expectations of the wider public for those from a village named after an historic champion of the underclass whereas the occupants of 'Payourway Bay' and 'Honesty Cove' went about a much less illegal lefestyle. The cobble road from the car park into RHB is calf and ligament straining in the extreme and even more so if struggling with a suitcase and provisions for a holiday week. Those who take a vehicle down the very steep and narrow incline are faced with very little room to exercise a three point or reversing turn at the slipway or where the road loops up to one of the public houses. On one day trip we saw the aftermath of the rampage of a runaway digger that had only been restrained by burying itself into a shop front on the first tight bend. The peak of summer is a good time to avoid the village as it overflows with visitors and cottage renters to the point of being claustrophobic. In the autumn or early spring the village is ghostly and empty but the echo of footsteps and the whistle of the wind through the streets gives the impression of being sole survivors of a global catastrophe. It takes a few years of out of season stays to become familiar with the footways and back alleys but they form an intriguing exploration of the ginnels, courts and dead-ends always with the accompanying smell of wood smoke from a hundred or more chimney pots. We have had the pleasure of renting four or five properties ranging from a double fronted Georgian townhouse with ghost to a cottage with a burrow like almost subterranean kitchen, and a draughty and damp clifftop cottage with exceptional views. At high tide the slipway throws the North Sea into the heart of the village. At low tide the beach and rock pools provide an extensive playground.
Staithes is north of Whitby and tends to be disregarded over the more picturesque and accessible RHB. There are similarities of a steep road down and a busy car park but Staithes is actually a functioning place and not so much a time capsule. It is possible to buy a postage stamp, a latte and groceries without a tourist premium or being swamped with seaside souvenirs and frivolities. The harbourside is broad and open and in the early morning sun, even a wintry one, it can be very pleasant sitting out or leaning on the railings watching the lifeboat drill or the reeling and mewling gulls around the cliff head. The harbour wall can be followed to the entrance over large concrete stepping stones or the huge sea defence boulders and rocks clambered over if living dangerously floats your boat. A small stream feeds into the sea under a footbridge giving endless hours of pooh-stick potential. With the tide out the stream can be followed a few hundred metres inland around the brightly coloured hulls of small cobbles and smacks. The village was the home to Captain James Cook in his formative maritime years from 1744 and it is easy to imagine that period with very little having changed in terms of buildings and atmosphere. One of the cottages we rented was down Fishermans Terrace, just off the main street and close to the pub.Other holiday breaks were higher up the escarpment with rooftop views over red pantiles streaked with guano and blackened by a few chimney fires from those getting a bit carried away with their first introduction to solid fuel without an instruction manual or in the strangely welcome absence of a signal to allow consultation of the smart phone and tablet. After the day trippers have wheezed up the steep hill to their parked cars it is quiet and very peaceful in the village. Activities in front of a roaring log fire include putting together a well worn jigsaw puzzle, building a large tower out of bits of kindling wood or steadily exhausting the cottage collection of VHS cassettes and trashy paperback novels of romance on horseback. Staithes is a place for genuine tradition and authentic living and you are more likely to strike up a conversation with an actual resident than an accountant from Slough slumming it up north.
I am completely divided in my allegiance to the two wonderful places. They have both, in their own way, excelled in meeting expectations and requirements for a family holiday at different times and in different circumstances. When something special has been called for to revive flagging spirits and energy levels we have not been left disappointed- not like those who chose Runswick Bay 'cos it really is a bit rubbish.
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