TO THE WOODS, TO THE WOODS
We've been spending some time exploring Raincliffe Woods, which run between Throxenby Mere and Forge Valley. (My wife Maureen is pictured emerging into the sunlight from one of the paths.)
A couple of weeks ago, we followed one of the trails waymarked by the woods' friends group - at least, we started following it, but we missed one of the markers, and walked rather further than intended.
There are two walks of about three to four miles, for which the guide suggests allowing a couple of hours. We found that even with a couple of stops for a lunchtime sandwich and a chat, that's a very generous allowance.
Our latest waymarked walked was a figure-of-eight, which included a couple of steep climbs, including the one from Green Gate car park to the rim of Forge Valley.
Our only concern when we're out in this area stems from the risk of leaving our car unattended in a lonely car park, but there's no easy solution.
During the first mile or so, we encountered quite a few dog walkers, but from that point, we had the woods to ourselves.
It's a marvellous time of year to be in the woodland. Two months ago, we were walking in Canadian forest, following local advice to whistle, sing or chat loudly, to warn any hungry bears of our presence. In Raincliffe, however, rustling in the undergrowth was a cause for interest, rather than alarm, but we never did spot any of many creatures we disturbed.
Had these woods been on my doorstep when I was a boy, I would have spent much of the school summer holidays there, building dens, and playing adventurous games with friends. I would have been nagging my parents constantly until three or four of us were given permission to sleep out, under a home-made shelter.
What on earth do youngsters do nowadays to let off energy and develop their senses of adventure and imagination?
In any event, Raincliffe Woods will certainly be on my schedule for future walks.
Published Date:
31/07/2008
Modified Date:
31/07/2008
It's all happening
What a wonderfully rich week we've just had.
Monday (21st) evening was spent on an excellent walk around South Cliff sites, organised by Scarborough Archaeological Society.
We saw the work of the celebrated borough surveyor, Harry Smith, who was responsible for the first Town Hall extension (not the appalling 60s-style ones that vies with the purple-fronted amusement arcade to be the most offensive feature of the twonscape viewed from the beach).
He also laid out St Nicholas Gardens, was responsible for widening The Esplanade, , for the development of South Cliff Gardens and the construction of the outdoor pool.
On Tuesday, we attended a concert by a German chamber orchestra in St Martin's.
Wednesday afternoon saw us at the Stephen Joseph Theatre for a cream tea in the restaurant, where Alan Ayckbourn and director Richard Derrington were interviewed. For the second successive event that we have attended in the restaurant, we sat next to Heather (Lady) Ayckbourn. The poor lady really deserves better company than I can offer.
On Thursday, we finally managed to see Life and Beth at the SJT - the most accessible of the trio of plays in the Things That Go Bump season. We'd been due to see it a week earlier, but a family crisis meant that our seats were unfilled.
Friday should have seen Maureen attending the reading group at Scalby Library, but when she arrived, she discovered it had been postponed for a week. M isn't having much luck with reading groups. She tried to join the one at Scarborough Library, but was told she couldn't attend, as they already had too many members. The ladies at Scalby, however, proved to be very friendly and welcoming.
Saturday saw us eating out at Tuscany Too on Ramshill Road. The food, as on the previous occasion we dined there, was excellent, but I did object to them trying to seat me nextto the serving hatch, where I would have the kitchen clatter in my ear, and where the waiters would be forever brushing against me. However, the waitress helped me to move the table and my chair without any drama.
Published Date:
30/07/2008
Modified Date:
30/07/2008
Oh, positive.
Mrs H and I went to a blood donor session this evening, and I'm pleased to say that it was less dramatic than my last one.
I always had a phobia for needles, so when my daughter (then 18) came home one day with a proud expression on her face and said she'd given blood, I was on the spot.
I said nothing to anyone, but I went to the next session on my own, and after a tense hour or so, was relieved to find that I'd emerged with an empty arm (as Tony Hancock suggested) but without having had a heart attack.
That was 22 sessions ago, and I'm a [i]little[/i] more relaxed about the experience now. Just a little.
Five months ago, I went to my 21st session on my own, as Mrs H and I had got out of sync.
After emptying my arm, I couldn't be bothered to follow the standard advice and sit around for a few minutes, to ensure that all was well.
I put my jacket on, jumped in the car and set off home.
Half way back, I became conscious of the fact that my sleeve was rather wet.
At home, we discovered that my entire left side was drenched with blood. I have honestly never seen so much blood in my life.
I clutched what I thought was the puncture site and held my arm in the air, but there was so much blood that we couldn't tell if
I was doing any good, so Mrs H decided to call the paramedics.
They took over very efficiently and sorted me out.
When we went to tonight's session, my summons was marked with the discreet message: "Review arm procedures," as a result of which I had a very polite and friendly lecture.
Believe me, I've learned my lesson!
Published Date:
18/07/2007
Modified Date:
18/07/2007
Evil ivy
Every year after Christmas, my father used to get our bare-rooted Christmas tree and plant it in the garden, in the forlorn hope that it would thrive.
My wife had the same idea about a couple of pots of ornamental ivy, which had shrivelled in the sitting room through over- or under-watering, or over- or under- feeding, or excessive cold or heat or aridity or humidity.
Each was given a last chance in the garden.
This weekend, I was supposed to be making an all-out attempt to remedy this tactical error.
One "dead" ivy has now covered a 30ft fence and is making inroads into a stretch of 17th Century hedge.
The other has covered another 30ft fence, and is sending advance guards into my lawn.
As anyone would do nowadays, I checked the internet for suggested ivycides.
Basically, the advice seems to be: Either devote your life to killing the stuff, or give up.
Poisons won't seep through the waxy leaves, it seems, and the only successful approach is to make slits in the stems, then spay poison onto them. Even then, there is little hope of success.
I have tried tearing it from the fence, but I get showered in dust, debris, and millions of tiny insects, for the small victory over about a foot of the evil stuff. There is probably enough left to stretch to the moon and back several times.
I give up.
Ivy, you win.
Published Date:
12/05/2007
Modified Date:
12/05/2007
Lady's present
On Sunday, I was due to referee a match at Filey, but when I arrived, I discovered that one of the goals was lying down, and chained in that position.
So we all drove to a free pitch at Hunmanby.
Normally, this wouldn't have mattered too much, but Mrs H and I had tickets for an event in Scarborough Literature Festival, a wine tasting at the Stephen Joseph Theatre, which started at 1pm.
The plan was that I would drive back to our flat, shower and change hurriedly, then we'd walk into town.
It would be a bit of a rush, but we ought to have made it.
Instead, I had to phone Mrs H and tell her to be waiting outside in Ramshill Road, where I would drag her into the car, and we'd fly town-wards.
I have to break off from the narrative for a moment to invite you to conjure up a vision of my appearance.
When I have a match on Sundays, I never shave in the morning. This is simply a habit, which started because in bitter winter weather, I instinctively feel a little more insulated.
I was wearing worn brown corduroy trousers, my most comfortable (ie old) long-sleeved polo shirt, and a blue fleece jacket that I'd picked up at an agricultural show about five years ago.
In addition to that, I had been running around a football pitch for 90 minutes, and I hadn't showered since.
Mrs H and I walked into the restaurant in the theatre, she resplendant in her carefully-chosen wine-tasting outfit, and me looking like a tramp.
We took two seats at a table where a very pleasant couple were already sitting, and waited for Malcolm Gluck, the wine expert, and Giorgio, the chef from Lanterna restaurant, to do their stuff.
I became conscious that someone had sat down to my right, and a very cultured voice then said: "It's a very good turnout, isn't it?"
I turned to find that the latest addition to our table was Lady Ayckbourn.
And believe me, she is a perfect lady.
She must have wondered at first if one of the Scarborough park bench residents had somehow scraped together a tenner to join the wine tasting, but fortunately, she didn't have me thrown out.
I think Mrs H must have saved the day, as she has enough natural culture for both of us.
We had an excellent time - although Mr Gluck was rather full of himself and tended to inflict his prejudices on us, rather than educate us.
As we were drinking, we has decided not to make our usual 6pm return to Housetown.
Instead, we got up at 4.30am, as Mrs H starts work in Housetown at 8am on Mondays.
Never again!
I was wrecked for two days.
Published Date:
26/04/2007
Modified Date:
26/04/2007
Death'sHead Hole
Moving on from my revelations about my caving activities...
I've been keen on computing (in a very cag-handed way) for 25 years or so.
I persuaded my wife to let me buy a Dragon 32 for £199 in 1982 - it had 32k of RAM, but the operating system used 5k of that.
The games software that you could buy at that time was so awful that by the time I'd read the beginner's handbook, I thought I could do better.
One of the very early games I wrote simulated a cave rescue scenario, in a very light-hearted way.
It didn't sell many copies, but it was fun.
Should you be kind enough to wish to read more, please see The Peaksoft Story
Published Date:
22/03/2007
Modified Date:
22/03/2007
Just gassing
I walked into the office yesterday, stopped, and said without thinking: "I can smell acetylene."
Not many people would recognise the smell, so I wasn't allowed to escape without giving an explanation - any it wasn't a simple one.
"I used to go caving a lot," I explained.
So....
"If you're going underground for more than eight or nine hours, a rechargeable electric lamp isn't much use, because there's no way or recharging it."
So....
"So you have to use carbide lamps.
"You put calcium carbide in a container in the base, and fill a reservoir on top with water...or whatever, ahem, might be available.
"The water drips onto the calcium carbide and makes acetylene gas, which emerges through a jet and is ignited."
I have to say that the people who work with me are accustomed to learning that I tend to indulge in activities that seem perfectly normal to me at the time, but which, when described, appear a little offbeat.
"So you used to stay underground for more than eight or nine hours?"
I'm 57 years old, be-suited, be-tied and looking as close to a model of respectable, conforming boringness as anyone can.
It was all years ago, of course, but when I sit in my office, I am faced by a 3ft x 2ft (that's 90cm * 60cm in foreign currency) survey, beautifully framed by Darren at the Market Vaults, Scarborough.
It shows Swildon's Hole, a major cave in Somerset in which I have spent days and days of my life, splashing, climbing, diving and crawling, and to which I would gladly return, given the chance.
Published Date:
22/03/2007
Modified Date:
22/03/2007
All together now
I spent 30 minutes last night driving to a nearby town, then cruised up and down the road until I found a pub with a familiar name - and there they were.
Dave Tuckwell, Dave Gell and Danny Prentice, now 50, but perfectly recognisable as the lads I drove on an epic trip on a beaten-up van through northern Europe, then north through Sweden, into Finland and then back south through Norway more than 30 years ago.
We swapped many a happy memory, and the plan now is that we mark the 35th anniversary of our pioneering walk along the Cleveland Way by completing the section from Saltburn to Scarborough together.
This time, though, they are detemined, we will sleep in B&Bs, and not under the stars, and they will not be drinking from streams, no matter how much I assure them of the water's purity.
Well they might not...but I certainly will.
I think they've gone just a little bit soft since they lost my influence.
Published Date:
22/03/2007
Modified Date:
22/03/2007