Great Railway Journeys.

I’ve always wanted to travel through Europe on the Orient Express. Just imagine, getting on a train in Paris and getting off in Istanbul, wow !

Apparently it started in1883 and after leaving Paris, it would steam through the Alps, Budapest and Bucharest to Constantinople, “Packed with grandees and unheard of luxuries such as soap by the washbasins, reports swiftly came back of its exquisite food, excellent wine and impeccable service.”

Unfortunately the nearest I got to that this year was a trip to Birmingham recently by train, brought about because the bad weather prevented us going in the car.

The “experience” started in the ticket office when I had to inform the ticket vendor that I was on medication for high blood pressure, and he wasn’t helping matters coming out with those sorts of  ridiculous prices. Adding insult to injury, he suggested we take out a Senior Rail Card to bring down the cost, without having to ask our ages !

The journey itself started out reasonably well, but as I settled back to let the ‘train take the strain’, I slowly became aware of a repetitive knocking sound which had me thinking a wheel bearing had gone on our carriage. I was just about to reach for the emergency chord when Mrs N pointed out a certain ‘yoof’ across the aisle with ear phones in, from where the noise was emanating.

After a brief stop to change trains, and take out a mortgage on two ‘Medium Lattes’ that turned out be coffee with shaving foam on top, we resumed our journey.

As we approached  Sheffield station  we noticed a large contingency of Railway Police, some with dogs, herding a crowd of football fans along the platform, and guess which train they were getting on ! So we had to endure the next 40 minutes being serenaded with, ‘who ate all the pies’ by a group of  ‘merry’ men ominously blocking the aisle as there were no seats, and spilling lager everywhere.  Thankfully, they left at Derby and we continued to our destination in relative peace.

And why should we put ourselves through any of this misery, you may ask?

Well this happened to be very special journey indeed. It was to meet the newest addition to our family, baby Grandson Isaac who was born just the week before, and it sure was worth it.  Let’s just say, It may not have been a trip on the Orient Express, but it was certainly one of the Great Railway Journeys of our lives.

At a cinema near you.

It was  Mrs N’s birthday yesterday, and seeing as she absolutely loves Les Miserables which was being shown at the local cinema, we went to see it.

“ Bloody hell, how much !” I exclaimed, as the girl at the ticket office told us the price, and was just about to point out the irony of the film being about the oppressed poor and all that, when a glowering look from the birthday girl persuaded me to keep quiet.

The film was to last 158 minutes and being of a certain age, I thought it wise to pay a ‘visit’ before we went to our seats. On entering the Gents, I nearly broke my neck tripping over a step stupidly situated just behind the entrance door. It’s quite an old cinema, and I wondered how many countless people over the years must have used those very same expletives.

Taking our seats early, I passed the time before the film started telepathically guiding late-comers to seats well away from us, and muttering about punctuality. There was only one near miss when an old lady hovered for a breathtaking moment looking at the seats directly in front, until a shout of “Barbara, we’re over here love”, thankfully had her heading off in another direction.

Eventually it started and at first I was quite impressed, but not being one for  films soon descended into apathy and nodded off for a while as it did drag on a bit. Mercifully, after 98 minutes precisely, the interval came and I paid another ‘visit’ just in case, only to trip over that  step again! Well, 98 minutes is a long time at my age you know, both mentally and urologically.

The second half was much better and whilst managing to stay awake long enough, witnessed some very moving moments, songs and performances. It’s a pity they felt the need to rely on some big names whose singing abilities left a lot to be desired. She of Mama Mia fame as lovely as she is, trilled away like a canary on acid, and Russell Crowe should really stick to disemboweling other gladiators.

All in all though it was very good or should I say c'est magnifique, and as we munched our way through a bag of Raspberry Ruffles and Chocolate Eclairs, my eyes did water a couple of times. Once when I accidentally bit my lip, and the other when I tried crossing my legs, and nearly did myself a mischief . Well that’s what I told Mrs N, when she saw me wiping my eyes.

Rest In Peas.

It was a lovely sunny morning when Grandma was driving three year old Emma to nursery recently.  Munching away on a biscuit, and no doubt dropping crumbs all over my newly cleaned car, the little one spotted a man on a tractor ploughing a field.

Emma....“What’s that mister doing over there Grandma ?”

Grandma....“He’s a farmer sweetheart, digging his soil like Grandad does ”.

Emma....“No Grandma, Grandad’s not a Farmer”.

Grandma....“Well what is he then darling ?”

Emma....“He’s an Allotment, silly”.

Well I never! Stereotyped by a bloomin' three year old, I ask you !

When Grandma told me this little anecdote, I was quite amused, but it also set me thinking.

Is this how I’m seen now by my family in my later years, and what’s more, is this what I’ll be remembered for when I’m gone, having an allotment ?

What about what I did in my working life, will I be remembered for that? and am I not now a writer blogger, guitar player and local historian even (well I do find old things on the plot).
 
All these other talents so obviously invisible to this poor unfortunate child, perhaps I need to work on my image a little more before it’s too late.  

But you know what they say, “out of the mouths of babes” and all that, and I suppose I ought to be grateful really that she doesn’t describe me as a pub or a betting shop. But please little Emma, if I am to be an allotment in your eyes, can I be a well tended, fertile and productive contribution to the horticultural world, and not the weed infested and pest ridden entity that I am at the moment.

Now I’ve thought about it  I quite like the idea, and I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad after all to be remembered for my allotment  by my family when I’m gone, or even as one by Emma. I can just see it now :-

                                         

The Tree of Optimism.

A friend of mine is a member of our village Parish Council, and me being of an allotmenteering bent., he asked me to help with a special job recently. It was the planting of a replacement apple tree on Parish land, for one that had become diseased and had to be felled, and which was protected by a tree preservation order.

Little was known about the now truncated old tree, such as when it was planted or what variety it was, which I thought rather sad. It had stood there forlorn and forgotten  in  that field for a very long time, but must have  had some significance once,  having ended up with a TPO on it.

Stumped (gettit !) as to what variety it was, we plumped for a good old  fashioned Bramley as its replacement, that will hopefully supply the innards of many a scrumptious apple pie for years to come.

Before

After

When the sheep in the field where it was to go, were eventually corralled off, the deed was duly carried out on a very wet and windy afternoon with their prolific droppings clinging everywhere. I must admit, for a while I wondered what the hell I was doing there!

People who passed by expressed an approving interest, except for one doom laden old lad who deflated me a little.  “You’ll just have to wait about seven years now, to see any apples from it”, he muttered, and it did make me think, given our ages!

It reminded me of the tale of the very old man who wanted to plant a tree, but his wife of sixty years questioned whether it was worth doing at his extended age.

“Hmm, I see what you mean”, he said, but after a short hesitation added,  “I’d better get on with it sharpish then, hadn’t I”.

Now was that just an acceptance of his fate, or a defiant show of optimism in the continuity of life beyond his own existence.  I prefer to believe the latter.

So in solidarity with that old man and in memory of the old tree, it was worth getting p***ing wet through and covered in sheep s**t for, I think, even though I may have to wait a while for some apple pie.

Flippin' eck !

I’m loathe to use swear words on this blog, in fact apart from the odd ’bloody’, I think you would struggle to bloody find one. The main reason being, that you never know who might be reading it, and I wouldn’t want any member of the Royal Family to be offended now would I.

Well I can assure you dear readers reader, that I am not the saint this makes me out to be. I can use ‘pit language’, as my mother used to call it, with the best of them. In fact at times, I find it an essential part of my vocabulary, such as when I’m driving or watching politicians on television.

Down at the allotment site, we have one particular character who has perfected the art of swearing to such an extent, that he not only swears every second word, but every third and fourth as well. I’ve mentioned him before, Effing Phil. We nicknamed him that to indicate his particular favourite.

My dear departed brother also had a favourite swear word, ‘chuffin’, and did enough ‘chuffin’ to have had a memorial plate erected in his honour at the York Railway Museum. I always thought the word quite benign, as he would use it in front of anyone he met, but I recently googled it (with its attendant letter g) and got quite a shock. I now wonder if he knew all along, and just didn’t give a damn.

I don’t have any favourites as such, as I like to keep my options open and tailor them to the situation. So, for instance, a dunked biscuit that decides to go for a swim in my tea may get a ‘b*gger’, whereas the tea spilt on to my lap, would definitely get a mumbled ‘f**k’.

I’m also known to use the word ‘b**tard’  quite a lot as well, but in an anthropomorphous way, whereby I give life to inanimate objects. So for instance, if Mrs N hears me shouting “come here you little b**tard”, from the garage, she knows I’m not swearing at one the grandkids, but at a dropped screw that has rolled as far under a cupboard as it’s possible to do.

I reserve my strongest outbursts however , with words strung together on a bejewelled necklace of profanity , for situations where I get  physically injured.

So, in keeping with my blogger policy, I can only leave it to your imaginations to fill in what I said when I recently did this down at the plot.

Thumbnail of a thumbnail.

 

Away with the fairies.

That last post reminded me of a time in my life, as a young man, when I dabbled with religion. I was a latecomer, mentored by the local vicar right up to being fully confirmed, an adult yearner you could say.

My wife and I got to know the vicar quite well, and as our house was on his way to the church, he would often call for a sandwich and a cup of tea after work. I well remember one particular Sunday night, when as he was sat munching away, there was a knock at the door. It was a couple of policemen, enquiring about a local crime, so I invited them in for a cuppa as well. We all sat there, looking like a scene from Midsummer Murders, but I digress.

It didn’t last long however, this conversion. A growing despair at world suffering, the many hypocrisies of the Church and the need to constantly beg forgiveness from something that couldn't be seen or heard, eventually took its toll on my belief.

It left a hole, I must admit, and I sometimes envy those who have a belief system on which to hang their life, and ‘show them the way’,  but I’m now an ardent empiricist.  I can only believe information proven by observation or experimentation, and I’ve never observed or experienced anything to make me believe in any religious deity.

I came close once, in my early twenties. One very dark night, sat with a mate on a local beach discussing such things as you do, and with a few empty beer cans around us, we asked God for a sign to prove his existence. Lo and behold, there was a sudden flash of light out to sea in the night sky. We were dumbstruck at this manifestation, half expecting the next one to strike us dead for testing him. It was only after the second and third  recurrent flashes at regular intervals, that we realised it was the distant lighthouse of Flamborough head.

I'd like to live here.

The only other experience I have of anything approaching the supernatural, was when as a child, I saw a fairy, in the old sense of the term I must add. You may laugh, but it seemed very real at the time, and I can still remember every detail of the diminutive figure, sat in that blackcurrant bush.

Not a blackcurrant fairy, but near enough.

Of course, the figure had disappeared when I eventually persuaded my mother to come and have a look, but at least she could now justifiably say I was away with the fairies, which she often did.

Over the years I’ve reluctantly had to accept that it was a just figment of my childhood imagination, with the same disappointment that I discovered Father Christmas didn't exist. But you know what, more than five decades on from that day, I still look with expectation in every blackcurrant bush I see, just in case!

Jesus Christ! It sure was hot!

We went to see the latest stage performance of Jesus Christ Superstar last Sunday. The one with a spice girl in it, Mel B or is it C, I don’t know.

It must be nearly 40 years now since we last saw it on stage in London, as a young couple in beads, flares and patchouli oil, with not a care in the world. Mrs N and I had a couple of days there one hot summer when first married, and were totally entranced by all that was going on at that time. We returned home having spent every penny we had in the world.

So, would it live up to our expectations, after all we were there at the beginning.

Well, the music and singing was just as powerful as I remembered, with some brilliant guitar work from two young lads who were probably 20 years away from being born when it was first performed. The vibrancy and energy of the dance routines was just as good , and the special effects were ‘awesome’ as my grandkids would say.

I was a little disappointed with the modern day setting though, and  would have preferred it to have been in its original ‘biblical’, form. The background of last year’s city riots, wasn’t really a big enough political theme to portray an oppressed occupied nation, and Pontius Pilot as a judge just didn’t work, I think he was a bit more powerful a figure than that.

All in all, it was a great evening that whisked us back 40 years for a couple of hours, as we sang along to every tune.

Something happened that evening however, to reminded me of the need to live a good life if I wasn’t to end up in that burning inferno down below.

No, it wasn’t that I had some sort of  Damascene conversion during the concert, it was because the bloody heating on the bus was broken and couldn’t be turned off. We had to travel two and a half-hours, both there and back, set on gas mark 6, and emerged from the bus each time like basting turkeys. Talk about hot, if that’s a taste of what Hell's like, then I promise never to put another foot wrong dear lord.

Doppleganger

I do admire all those brave bloggers out there who openly identify themselves on the internet, but unfortunately I’m not one of them. Being a shy person I hide behind a veil of anonymity on this blog, and all I dare give  is a shadowy image for a profile picture.

If you find this disappointing then I’m sorry, but I can assure you  I am real, and these are real happenings on and around a real allotment somewhere in North Yorkshire, England.

However, as a consolation I would like to offer a tantalising glimpse of what I actually look like, and a recent trip to the seaside town of Filey provided just that opportunity.

The day started with a walk through the formal gardens, that had endless bright but boring flower beds.

Then, like a shimmering oasis in a horticultural desert, I spotted an unusual flower bed on one of the grassed areas. Here, someone had created a miniature annual flower meadow full of impressionistic colour, that was a beauty to behold.

 

 

The insects thought so too.

We then strolled along the sea front and had a coffee in one of the cafes, whilst watching the  gulls harrying the holidaymakers. Alas our peace was shattered by a small boy at the next table, who much to his mother’s displeasure was jumping up and down on the said table and chucking his chips everywhere. So we moved on.

But what the hell has this got to do with what he looks like ? I hear you ask.

Well just round the next corner, we happened to pass a very famous television gardening personality who I think looks like a bit like me.

Was it Alan Tichmarsh, who’s waxwork model in Madame Tussauds has to have lipstick wiped off it twice a week? If only.

Or even that epitome of orgasmic organic fertility for some of the ladies, the mighty Monty Don ?

No kind people, it was neither of these, it was the wonderfully ebullient Christine Walkden, coming in the other direction.

Sorry I didn't get a picture, but she was off like a shot being pulled along by a very large dog.

Karma for Dummies

I was sat at the computer the other day having a nice cup of tea, and reflecting on the irony of allotmenteers being in so much conflict with nature, as you do. After all, are we not the first to appreciate the beauty and wonder of the natural world, and yet wage a constant war with creatures great and small in an effort to protect the fruits of our labour.

Take butterflies for example. Is it not a sheer joy to see a Peacock dancing about in a light summer breeze, or a Red Admiral lazing in the afternoon sun. Yet if I see a Cabbage White hovering near my brassicas, it instantly becomes an angel of the Devil, to be eradicated at all costs.

I don’t take any delight in killing things, and in reality chase butterflies away hoping they’ll hop over the fence onto my neighbour Jeff’s cabbages instead. After all you have to think about those Buddhist principles of not harming living creatures, because they may be the reincarnated souls of the dead. That big fat slug you’ve just squashed that was munching on your lettuces, might have been someone’s grandad once upon a time!

There’s also the Buddhist concept of Karma to take into consideration as well, something about a person’s ‘bad actions’ creating bad results for that individual. Could all this hostility towards nature be having a negative effect on me, I wondered? Is this why I keep getting scab on my spuds?

This one looked a bit more complicated however. I mean if I kill a slug eating a lettuce, it’s bad for the slug but good for the lettuce, right ?

Wanting to know more about Karma I looked it up on Wikipedia, but it started going on about ‘cause and effect’ and ‘volitional’ activities. My eyes started to glaze over and I got even more confused.

Then a Bluebottle with a chainsaw flew in through the open window, to remind me which insect I definitely don’t like, and why I’ll never be on the Dalai Lama’s Christmas card list. I tried hard to ignore it for a while, but the incessant buzzing eventually raised my blood pressure enough for me to have to take some action.

Having developed my own strategy for dealing with flies over the years, I picked up the A4 pad at the side of me and waited for it to land somewhere. I would then bring the said pad down quickly, but just far enough away from the beast, to cause it to take off and fly into the path of the descending weapon of execution. That way you get a clean kill and avoid spreading fly innards everywhere.

This normally works, but here I was dealing with no ordinary fly, I think it was the reincarnated soul of a Kamikaze pilot on speed, and it buzzed around the room with not the slightest intention of landing for the next 24 hours it seemed. It soon became obvious that my usual method would be useless and that I’d have to go nuclear, so I went for the fly spray instead.

Having eventually found it amongst the multitude of other sprays under the kitchen sink, I returned to the room, but the buzzing had stopped. The little bugger had taken advantage of my absence to hide and have a rest. I was sure I could hear it laughing at me but couldn’t see it anywhere.

Then, without warning, it flew straight at me from the direction of the window, at about 12 o’clock with the full sun behind it to dazzle me, and went for my head.

Luckily, I managed to get a shot in before diving for cover behind the filing cabinet, and from the safety of my bunker watched it flying around the room for quite a while, apparently unaffected, as it hunted for me. In fact it seemed to speed up, so much so that it passed through the sound barrier causing a sonic bang. Or was that me banging my head on the damned filing cabinet drawer I’d left open, as it went for me again?

Eventually after about 5 minutes its engines began to falter, and it had to make a spluttering emergency landing on the windowsill. Though it made several unsuccessful attempts to take off again, its time was obviously up.

Next, it did a very strange thing by flipping over onto its back and doing a break dance. I watched mesmerised as it spun and somersaulted in a macabre dance of death, that lasted about a minute, before suddenly stopping. Wondering if it was now dead, I waited a short while before prodding it with a pen.

It then did no more than spring back to life as if miraculously resurrected, and soared high into the air. Before finally, in what I can only take as a desperate act of revenge, it took one last gasp and fell to earth, straight into my bloody tea.

Ah ! now that must be what they mean by Karma then.

That manure's rubbish.

The road back to the allotment site, over the railway bridge.


I’m beginning to think I’ve become part of a surreal soap opera down at the allotments, and keep looking out for the cameras.

“Where you going with that barrow”? Old John called out to Mary, who was heading towards the gateway out of the allotment site. She retraced her steps, back to us.

“I’m going to that house for some horse manure”, she said gesturing towards the village, where a man has bags of it for sale on his front drive, marked up for a £1. I think he must have a paddock round the back.

By the way, the allotments are a good 600 yards outside of the village, and the walk there and back entails going over a fairly steep railway bridge (shown in the photo), so no mean feat for a lady of her years pushing a wheelbarrow. She doesn't drive you see

“I thought you went for some the other day” said John.

“I did…….” she replied, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “but it was all rubbish”.

My curiosity now raised, because I had been thinking of getting some myself, I asked her why it was, and if so why was she going back for more ?

“You’re not going to believe this, it could only happen to a silly old fool like me”, she said, self deprecatingly, and the story duly unfolded.

She had trudged all the way to the house with the wheelbarrow and knocked on the door, the man took the money for two bags, told her to help herself and closed the door. At this, she went to where the bags were and spotted the only two lots that were conveniently in tied black bin liners, the others all being in open topped old compost bags. Thinking they would be the easiest to handle on the barrow without spilling the contents, she took these and trudged all the way back to the site again. You may be guessing where this is going by now.

“Well, when I got back and opened them….”she said, red faced, “ they were both literally full of rubbish !”

She had only picked up two bags of household waste destined for the bin man, hadn’t she.

Now that's a bargain.

It’s like the first Cuckoo call at the beginning of May.

“Shall we go to the carboot ?” she asked last Sunday morning. That inevitable little question we hear at this time of the year.

“But it’s going to rain, look at those clouds”, I try.

“We’ve got an umbrella, and you’ve just bought that new waterproof coat with a hood “, she reposts.

(Second attempt, try sympathy). “My knee's playing up a bit, I don’t think I’m quite up to it you know”.

“Rubbish, the walk will do it good, it’ll only seize up sat in that chair all day”. So much for sympathy then.

I thought of trying the Icelandic volcano as a last resort, but that might make it too obvious that I didn’t really want to go.

It’s nine o’clock, and on entering the field a wonderful aroma of mixed animal bits fried in rancid grease gets up my nostrils, and I can’t shift it all the time I’m there. Surely nobody’s eating them at this time of the morning I thought. But it’s not long before we’re passing a family scoffing burgers, that could only be described as biology lessons in a bun with cheese on. In a touching scene I catch sight of dad breaking a bit off for the dog, which helpfully licks his fingers clean, then breaking some more off for the toddler in the push chair.

Snaking our way around the tables full of this now unwanted ephemera, it strikes me how much rubbish we buy in our lives. There are countless figurines of sad little old men and women sat on benches, plates with flowers on and jugs from Majorca (didn’t it used to be Skegness).

I’m struck by how positive these sellers are, real “glass half full” types, because most of it would be better off in a skip quite frankly. I mean, who wants a rusty old Sky dish, or a jigsaw puzzle proudly labelled with, “Only one piece missing”.

At last something interesting, there’s a stall selling tomato plants, not that I need any as I’ve grown my own this year. It’s a bloody good job as well, 70p they wanted for them, and they weren’t even labelled up which variety they were. Daylight robbery if you ask me.

Sometimes there are bargains to be had and I suppose that’s what drives us to go to these events, but bargains are quite a subjective thing when you think about it. For instance I’d be very happy to find an old rake for a quid, and you might even squeeze another 50p out of me if it had a handle.

At a car boot I went to last year, a young lady I overheard speaking very loudly to her other half on her mobile, really summed it up.

“I’ve just picked up a brilliant breast pump for a fiver”, she told him delightedly !

Hope springs eternal

I was planning on going down to the plot yesterday on the strength of last night’s weather forecast, not that you can rely on them any more. It said there would be rain spreading in from the west over night, but that it would eventually clear. Well the rain clouds came, but somebody forgot to tell them that they should move on and consequently it was miserably wet all day.

Looking out of the window on to the garden that was now visible after the snow had eventually gone, I thought how forlorn it looked after the battering it had over the past weeks. Even the winter pansies I had planted in the tubs near the front door were struggling.

Then I just spotted what I look forward to seeing every year around this time, the first snowdrops. They were very near flowering and because of the snow, I simply hadn’t been able to see them


What would we do without these little harbingers of spring to lift our spirits in the depths of winter, not long now.